8ERTRAND  <; 
ACRES  >KS 

)4O  FACiFf-::  AVltNUE 

, 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


(page  364) 


I'LL  WARN  THEM  ALL  IN  SPITE  OF  YOU 


THE  OATH  OF 
ALLEGIANCE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

BY 

ELIZABETH   STUART  PHELPS 

ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

.<Cbc  lliticrsi&e  press  Cambridge 
1909 


COPYRIGHT,   1909,   BY  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  October  IQOQ 


Oz- 


CONTENTS 


THE  OATH  OF  ALLEGIANCE  i 

COVERED  EMBERS  32 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AUREOLA  70 

A  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  113 

His  SOUL  TO  KEEP  142 

A  SACRAMENT  177 

"  TAMMYSHANTY  "  205 

UNEMPLOYED  239 

THE  SACRED  FIRE  278 

CHRISTOPHORUS  319 

THE  CHIEF  OPERATOR  353 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

I  'LL   WARN   THEM   ALL   IN   SPITE   OF   YOU    (page  364) 

Frontispiece 

SHE  HAD  ONE  OF  THOSE  EXALTED  HOURS  76 

THE  THIRD  MAN  WAS  HARRIS  GLESSNER  162 

I  'LL  GET  OUT  OF  IT  AS  SOON  AS  I  CAN  174 

TIRED,  FATHER  ?  250 


THE  OATH  OF  ALLEGIANCE 

IT  was  the  time  of  great  purposes  and  small  hopes; 
it  was  the  time  of  grand  deeds  and  dark  dreams;  it 
was  the  time  of  glory  and  madness,  of  love  and 
despair;  it  was  the  time  of  the  greatest  motives  and 
the  noblest  achievement,  the  truest  praying  and  the 
bitterest  suffering  that  our  land  and  our  day  have 
known. 

The  story  which  I  have  to  tell,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a 
story  at  all,  is  a  tale  of  the  war,  and  therefore  not 
in  the  fashion.  It  is  in  such  important  particulars 
true  that  it  may  ask  a  respectful  hearing,  since,  in  the 
matter  of  which  I  have  to  speak,  it  will  be  found  that 
the  fact  rather  than  the  way  of  putting  the  fact  is  the 
source  of  interest. 

It  was  the  summer  of  the  year  1862,  in  the  New  Eng 
land  university  town  which  let  us  call  Bonn  upon  these 
pages.  The  year  and  the  term  were  at  their  bloom ; 
the  elms  were  in  rich  leaf,  and  stood  stately,  like 
unconscious  pagan  divinities,  august,  in  groups  and 
ranks  upon  the  college  greens.  The  paths  were 
weeded  and  clean.  The  grass  was  long  and  luxu 
riant;  for  this  was  before  it  was  thought  necessary 
to  shave  one's  lawn  to  fighting-cut.  The  June  air 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

melted  delicately  against  the  cheek.  The  proper 
cultivated  flowers  grew  in  the  proper  places,  as  such 
things  do  in  well-directed  towns.  The  white  Persian 
lilac  was  in  blossom  in  the  sedate  gardens  of  the 
faculty.  The  well-trimmed  honeysuckle  clambered 
over  the  well-painted  porch.  The  June  lilies,  in 
rows,  stood  decorously  dying  on  the  edges  of  the 
graveled  paths.  No  one  ever  did  anything  indeco 
rously  in  Bonn, —  except,  of  course,  the  boys. 

One  of  the  boys  had  been  dangerously  near  an 
indecorum  in  one  of  those  highly  cultivated  gardens 
on  the  June  day  of  which  we  speak.  It  had  been  a 
merry  day,  full  of  sun  and  winds  and  spices,  full  of 
the  essences  of  growth  and  blossom  and  of  reaching 
on  to  that  larger  life  which  precedes  a  glowing  death ; 
and  the  sturdy  boy  felt  it,  as  he  ought  to,  restlessly; 
not  as  the  serene  elms  did,  and  the  white  lilac.  The 
elms  always  seemed  to  him  to  belong  to  the  faculty. 

As  he  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  particular  elm  that 
overhung  the  southeast  corner  of  Professor  ThornelFs 
garden,  on  the  rustic  seat  (of  iron,  painted,  not  at  all 
rusty)  against  the  high  stone  wall,  the  arms  of  the 
tree  swooped  over  him  vigilantly,  and  gave  him  an 
uneasy  sense  as  of  one  who  would  be  requested  to 
stay  after  that  recitation  if  he  forgot  himself.  Nature 
herself  always  seemed,  in  Bonn,  to  be  appointed  by 
the  trustees. 

His  companion  on  the  painted  rustic  seat  did  not 

2 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

say  "swooped."  She  said  " swept,"  — the  branches 
swept.  She  was  the  only  daughter  of  Professor 
Thornell. 

The  young  man,  it  was  easy  to  see  at  a  glance,  was 
of  the  sort  known  in  college  circles  as  the  popular 
fellow.  This  may  mean  almost  anything ;  it  sometimes 
means  the  best  of  things,  as  perhaps  in  this  instance. 
He  had  a  happy,  hearty  face.  His  eye  was  as  direct  as 
a  noon  sunbeam,  and  at  times  as  bright;  at  others, 
it  withdrew,  like  the  eyes  of  a  much  older  man,  into 
a  subdued  cloud,  blue,  or  gray,  or  violet,  or  one 
knew  not  what.  He  had  bright  brown  hair,  curly, 
and  beneath  the  boyish  mustache  the  cut  of  a  firm, 
rather  full,  but  remarkably  delicate  mouth  was  agree 
ably  visible.  He  had  the  complexion  and  hands  of 
carefully  reared  but  athletic  boys.  He  did  not  look  as 
if  he  had  ever  done  a  stroke  of  work  in  his  life  outside 
of  a  campus  or  a  schoolroom.  One  smiled  on  glancing 
from  his  cheek,  ruddy  and  fair  as  a  girPs,  to  his 
palms,  gnarled  with  the  knocks  of  baseball,  and  his 
iron  wrists.  He  had  a  round,  Greek  head,  well  set  upon 
his  shoulders.  Seen  for  the  first  time  in  a  crowd,  an 
experienced  teacher  would  have  said  of  him,  "There 
goes  a  promise, — a  well -born,  well-balanced  promise." 

The  girl  beside  him  was  a  trifle  older  than  he,  by 
the  shade  of  a  year,  perhaps.  At  their  age  each 
camePs-hair  stroke  of  the  brush  of  time  tells.  This 
little  circumstance  added  dignity  to  her  carriage  and 

3 


THE  OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

appearance.  She  hardly  needed  it.  To  some  of  the 
students  she  would  have  been  more  charming  with  a 
touch  less  of  stateliness,  but  Harold  Grand  liked  her 
the  better  for  it.  Deep  in  his  young  heart  he  was  proud 
of  the  fact  that  the  fellows  used  to  say  that  you  could 
not  get  near  her  with  a  ten-foot  pole.  This  ancient 
and  obvious  figure  of  speech  was  the  final  college 
tribute  to  the  distance,  the  modesty,  and  the  sweet 
haughtiness  of  womanhood.  Young  Grand  rated  it 
accordingly. 

In  the  pleasant,  delicate  fashion  with  which  our 
best  young  people  conduct  such  comradeships  they 
had  been  friends  for  a  long  time,  as  university 
time  goes,  since  junior  year;  and  he  was  about  to 
graduate.  They  talked  friendship,  as  young  folks 
do.  Of  love  they  had  never  spoken. 

We  speak  of  language  as  if  it  depended  upon  the 
lips  to  utter.  What  does  the  heart  say,  and  what  the 
turn  of  the  head,  the  touch  of  the  hand,  the  fall  of 
the  foot,  or  the  mood  of  the  eyes  ?  He  sat  looking  at  her 
that  day  steadfastly,  with  the  bright,  fearless,  mascu 
line  gaze  before  which  her  own  drooped.  She  leaned 
against  the  painted  seat,  and  stirred  uneasily.  "Will 
you  have  the  rest  of  the  song?"  she  said.  She 
reached  around  without  turning  her  head,  and  lifted 
her  guitar  from  the  grass  to  her  lap.  Miriam  did  not 
play  the  piano,  like  the  other  girls.  To  please  her 
father  she  had  accomplished  herself  in  the  use  of  this 

4 


THE   OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

old-fashioned  instrument,  her  mother's  guitar.  She 
played  for  Harold  now  and  then  because  he  liked  it. 
Little  dashes  of  light  from  the  elm  branches  overhead 
flecked  her  sensitive  face.  She  was  not  a  beautiful 
girl,  but  she  had  the  prophecy  of  a  noble  face. 

She  wore  the  "spring- and -fall  dress"  of  a  well-regu 
lated  professor's  daughter,  who  must  always  appear  as 
pretty  as  possible  on  the  least  possible  sum  of  money. 
The  dress  was  gray,  trimmed  with  dark  blue.  Her  eyes 
played  between  the  two  colors.  She  wore  a  drapery 
sleeve,  in  the  fashion  of  the  day,  with  a  wide,  full  white 
undersleeve  finished  with  a  narrow  linen  cuff;  a  linen 
collar  bound  her  throat :  both  were  fastened  by  plain 
gold  studs.  Her  hands,  like  her  playing,  were  differ 
ent  from  the  other  girls',  for  she  wore  no  rings. 

Young  Grand  was  quite  familiar  with  the  details  of 
this  severe  little  costume,  for  it  was  not  new  this 
spring.  It  seemed  to  him  a  kind  of  celestial  uniform 
created  for  her,  but  he  had  never  said  so.  She 
mourned  sometimes  that  she  could  not  "dress"  when 
Harold  called.  She  would  have  liked  to  put  on  a  new 
gown  every  time  he  came  to  see  her,  and  so  be  a  new 
girl  on  each  occasion;  but  she  had  never  said  that, 
either.  She  did  not  feel  so  when  the  other  boys  called. 
Now,  when  Tom  Seyd  came  it  was  quite  different. 

"Yes,  play  to  me,  please,"  said  Harold  Grand. 

She  struck  a  few  notes,  and  stopped. 

"I  can't!  "she  pleaded. 

5 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

" Why  not?" 

"It 's  because  —  it 's  the  way  —  it 's  the  way  you 
look  at  me." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  any  the  less  for  this.  She 
began  to  tremble,  and  her  cheek  blazed.  Then  he 
took  a  swift,  manly  pity  upon  her,  and  folded  his 
arms  and  turned  his  head,  staring  at  the  stone  wall 
and  the  elm  tree.  He  had  never  touched  her  in  his 
life;  beyond  the  conventional  grasp  of  meeting  and 
parting,  his  hand  never  met  her  hand.  He  would  as 
soon  have  dared  to  touch  the  Ludovisi  Juno.  But 
now  his  moment  of  weakness  overtook  him,  as  it  over 
takes  most  of  us  at  some  unexpected  time.  His  fingers 
strolled  to  the  edge  of  her  gray  dress;  his  arms  ached 
to  take  her,  so  he  folded  them,  like  the  young  gentle 
man  that  he  was,  and  nodded  at  the  faculty  elms  as 
who  should  say,  "No,  sir!  You  don't  keep  me  after 
this  recitation!"  And  Miriam  began  to  sing. 

Thus  ran  the  scene  of  their  simple  courtship;  so 
plain  and  pure  and  young,  one  might  say  so  primitive, 
that  it  seems  almost  too  slender  to  reset,  in  these  days 
when  our  boys  and  girls  coquet  with  the  audacity 
and  the  complexity  of  men  and  women  of  the  world. 
And  that  was  all. 

Call  the  memory  on  wings  through  the  upper  air, 
move  the  sympathy  gently,  and  summon  the  imagi 
nation  softly,  and,  possibly,  then  one  may  understand 
what  one  has  forgotten  or  what  one  never  under- 

6 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

stood.  We  keep  ourselves  supplied  with  superior, 
slighting  phrases  for  the  loves  of  boys  and  girls.  It 
would  become  us  to  preserve  our  respect  for,  and  our 
comprehension  of,  experiences  which  may  be  the  ten- 
derest  and  the  truest  of  life. 

And  Miriam,  under  the  elm  tree  in  her  father's 
garden,  to  her  mother's  guitar,  began  to  sing:  - 

"Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 
Which  Neptune  obey; 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way." 

She  had  a  sweet,  not  a  strong  voice;  and  she  sang  as 
the  young  and  the  happy  do.  Harold  Grand  unfolded 
his  arms.  He  became  curiously  aware  of  the  pressure 
of  his  mother's  ring  upon  his  finger.  His  eyes  dropped 
from  the  elm  to  the  white  lilac;  then  they  strayed  to 
the  drooping  yellow  lilies.  The  end  of  the  long  blue 
ribbon  at  her  throat  blew  in  the  warm  air  against  his 
wrist.  He  restrained  it  softly  with  his  hand. 

11  Go  on, "  he  whispered;  for  the  girl  had  stopped. 

"Over  the  mountains 
And  over  the  waves, 
Under  the  fountains 
And  under  the  graves," 

sang  Miriam,  - 

"  Over  the  mountains, 
And  under  the  graves, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way." 

7 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

Her  voice  fell  and  ceased;  her  ringless  hands  strayed 
over  the  strings  of  the  old-fashioned  instrument;  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  come  out  of  a  picture  of  the  date 
of  her  mother's  youth.  He  watched  her  profile,  with 
the  braid  of  brown  hair  low  in  the  neck,  and  the  silver 
arrow  piercing  the  coil  above.  The  air  began  to  cool 
a  little  in  the  hot  garden.  The  bees  whispered  sleepily 
to  the  honeysuckle,  disdaining  the  lilies,  which  had 
left  their  prime  behind  them.  The  afternoon  sank. 

"Yet  I  like  them,"  said  Miriam  abruptly.  "I  love 
those  yellow  lilies  as  long  as  they  live,  and  when  they 
die  I  love  their  ghosts.  You  never  could  think  how 
they  look  by  moonlight!  I  come  out  sometimes  and 
walk  up  and  down  that  path,  quite  late,  to  see 
them." 

"You  are  changing  the  subject,"  suggested  the 
young  man,  but  not  with  the  self-possession  that 
the  little  sally  might  have  implied. 

"I  have  forgotten  what  the  subject  was,"  said 
Miriam  mischievously;  for  she  had  recovered  herself 
the  first  of  the  two,  as  women  do. 

"  Oh  —  it  is  one  as  old  as  —  older  than  we  are  — 
older  than  earth  is,  for  aught  I  know,"  the  boy  said, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "And  I  was  going  to 
say  —  to  try  to  say  —  " 

Then  the  color  burned  the  girPs  fine,  reserved  face 
from  brow  to  throat.  Then  she  caught  her  breath, 
and  thrust  out  her  hand  as  if  she  would  have  inter- 

8 


THE  OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

rupted  him.  But  she  was  spared  her  pretty  maiden 
trouble. 

Professor  Thornell,  accompanied  by  Professor  Seyd 
(of  the  Scientific  Chair),  came  down  the  garden  walk. 
The  two  learned  men  walked  ponderously  between 
the  rows  of  yellow  lilies.  They  discussed  the  unfortu 
nate  friction  at  the  last  faculty  meeting,  and  the  prob 
able  course  of  pedagogical  harmony  at  the  meeting  of 
that  night.  They  were  absorbed  in  these  great  themes. 
They  looked  vaguely  at  the  young  people  on  the 
painted  iron  settee.  Professor  Thornell  smiled  affec 
tionately  at  his  daughter  and  passed  on,  and  forgot 
her  at  once. 

It  no  more  occurred  to  him  that  she  and  young 
Grand  needed  matronizing  than  that  he  should  offer 
a  chaperon  to  the  busts  of  Apollo  and  Minerva  in 
the  college  library.  But  when  he  had  paced  to  the 
garden  fence  and  back  again,  he  stopped  confusedly 
to  say:  - 

"My  dear,  I  forgot  —  we  are  so  driven  with  com 
mencement  business  —  I  forgot  entirely  that  I  had  a 
message  from  your  mother.  She  said  I  was  to  tell  you 
—  How  unfortunate!  It  was  some  minor  domestic 
errand.  Professor  Seyd,  what  was  it  that  Mrs.  Thor 
nell  desired  to  have  done?"  pleaded  the  Professor 
of  English  Letters  helplessly. 

"She  desired  a  salad  prepared  for  supper," 
prompted  the  Professor  of  Science  accurately.  "She 

9 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

desired,  if  you  found  Miss  Miriam,  that  she  should 
prepare  a  potato  salad,  with  the  addition  of  beets. " 

Miriam  rose  at  once.  She  gathered  her  guitar  to 
her  lap,  and  put  on  her  straw  hat.  The  two  heavily  in 
structed  gentlemen  continued  their  walk  up  and  down 
the  garden  paths;  supperless  and  inaccessible,  they 
discussed  faculty  matters  till  eight  o'clock  that  night. 

The  two  young  people  passed  on  up  to  the  house 
between  the  rows  of  dying  lilies.  They  passed  in 
silence,  and  separated  at  the  front  door.  The  winged 
moment  had  fled.  The  sacred  embarrassment  of  youth 
and  love  fell  between  them.  For  his  life  he  could  not 
then  have  finished  his  sentence.  Nor  could  she,  for 
hers,  have  helped  him. 

Now,  the  scientific  professor,  having  an  unscientific 
and  emotional  wife,  had  gone  home,  as  her  nerves 
exacted,  to  report  himself  to  her;  thus  he  came  late 
to  the  faculty  meeting  at  the  president's  house.  Pro 
fessor  Thornell  was  annoyed. 

•"We  need  all  hands  to-night,"  he  remarked,  with 
the  natural  acerbity  of  a  colleague. 

Professor  Seyd  turned  upon  him  a  stiffened  face;  it 
showed  an  unprecedented  lack  of  color;  he  was  usu 
ally  a  red,  comfortable  man. 

"Have  you  seen  the  bulletins?"  he  demanded 
shortly.  "  I  am  just  from  the  telegraph  office.  We  have 
been  defeated  again.  Our  losses  are  said  to  be"  — 

10 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

He  began  slowly  to  repeat,  with  his  own  frightful, 
statistical  accuracy,  the  rumors  —  for  there  were  only 
rumors  yet  to  turn  to  —  of  the  evening:  Killed  - 
Wounded  —  Missing  —  a  fearful  table. 

The  faculty  sprang  from  their  chairs  and  gathered 
round  him,  while  with  pallid  lips  he  recounted  the 
horrors  of  one  of  the  worst  days  of  the  Peninsu 
lar  Campaign.  The  gray-haired  president  uttered  a 
fierce,  unscholarly  exclamation,  and  automatically 
reached  for  his  hat  and  cane.  He  acknowledged  after 
wards  that  it  came  into  his  head  to  go  down  town  and 
enlist.  For  once  in  the  history  of  Bonn  University, 
commencement  was  obliterated  from  the  conscious 
ness  of  her  professors.  The  quarrel  in  the  faculty  was 
forgotten.  The  Professor  of  English  Letters  and  the 
Professor  of  Science  shook  hands  with  the  Mathe 
matical  Chair,  their  chronic  foe. 

"The  boys  are  beside  themselves.  They  are  un 
manageable,  "  said  Professor  Seyd,  with  evident  agita 
tion.  "The  whole  university  is  in  the  streets.  It  is 
rumored  that  President  Lincoln  will  issue  a  call  for 
more  troops.  Five-sixths  of  the  senior  class  will  enlist, 
if  he  does,  and  —  God  bless  them !  —  I  would  if  I 
were  they!" 

He  had  a  boy  of  his  own  in  the  senior  class.  It 
never  had  occurred  to  him  that  Tom  could  go. 

"Hush!"  said  Professor  Thornell,  with  a  break  in 
his  voice.  " Hear  them,  now.  Listen!" 

ii 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

Far  down  the  street  and  wide  over  the  college  green 
the  boys  were  singing;  not  wildly,  but  with  a  restrained 
pathos  and  solemnity,  strange  to  their  young  lips :  — 

"And  then,  whate'er  befalls  me, 
I  '11  go  where  duty  calls  me." 

The  tramping  of  their  steps  fell  on  the  smooth,  hard 
streets  like  the  marching  of  an  army  corps.  It  ap 
proached  the  president's  house  with  measured  tread. 

"The  college  militia  is  out,"  observed  Professor 
Thornell.  "They  have  done  some  good  drilling,  our 
boys." 

The  faculty  answered  with  proud  eyes.  These 
elderly  men  flung  open  the  doors  and  windows,  and 
rushed  out  like  boys  to  meet  the  other  boys  as  they 
poured  upon  the  lawn,  calling  for  speeches.  In  the 
centre  of  the  crowd  stood  the  college  company,  drawn 
up  rank  and  file.  The  lights  blazed  upon  their  grave 
young  faces.  They  saluted  their  instructors  solemnly. 
Their  captain  advanced  from  the  line.  He  stood 
apart,  with  his  curly  head  bared,  while  he  conferred 
with  the  president.  Nobody  had  such  a  manner  as 
young  Grand.  He  had  heroic  beauty  that  night. 
His  eyes  were  elate  and  remote.  He  seemed  to  see 
no  person  present. 

But  Tom  Seyd,  back  in  the  ranks,  looked  straight  at 
his  old  father. 

In  the  house  of  the  Professor  of  English  Literature, 

12 


THE  OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

4— 

half  a  mile  down  the  surging  street,  a  girl  opened  the 
window  of  her  room,  and  put  aside  the  white  dimity 
curtain,  to  lean  over  the  sill  and  listen.  The  drum 
beats  tapped  the  hot  night  air,  and  grew  above  the 
ceasing  and  the  silenced  college  songs. 

"It  is  the  boys  out  drilling,"  thought  Miriam. 
"They  are  having  a  good  time.   I  wish  I  could  see  - 
He  looks  so  handsome  in  that  uniform!  And  Father 
will  make  them  a  speech. " 

Commencement  at  Bonn  was  but  a  broken  drama 
that  agitated  year.  The  ceremonials  began,  after  their 
usual  fashion  at  that  time  and  in  that  college,  upon 
one  of  the  closing  days  of  June.  But  on  the  first  of 
July  came  the  yet  well -remembered  call  of  the  Presi 
dent  of  the  United  States  for  three  hundred  thousand 
more  recruits. 

He  who  lived  the  war  through  in  a  university  town 
knows  what  patriotism  meant,  in  those  large  days, 
to  our  educated  men.  Where  was  found  the  purer 
motive,  the  braver,  nobler  act  ?  What  class  of  heroes 
in  our  smitten  land  offered  to  their  country  life  more 
high  and  precious,  or  death  so  calm,  intelligent,  and 
grand  ? 

The  scientific  professor,  with  his  habitual  accuracy, 
had  foretold  the  turn  of  affairs  in  the  college  quite 
precisely.  In  fact,  five-sixths  of  the  senior  class,  in 
one  wild  burst  of  sacred  rage,  offered  themselves  for 

13 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

enlistment;  and  a  large  number  were  accepted.  The 
boys  exchanged  their  diplomas  for  their  muskets. 
The  professors  held  an  impromptu  faculty  meeting  on 
the  platform  of  the  exhibition  hall,  where,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  the  old  university,  commence 
ment  etiquette  was  hurled  to  the  winds.  The  short- 
breathed  trustees  clambered  up  by  the  winding  stairs 
into  the  anteroom,  and  these  venerable  men,  with 
streaming  eyes,  signed  the  sheepskins,  which  they 
dispatched  after  the  young  heroes  who  had  flung 
scholastic  honor  and  peace  and  safety  down  at  the 
scorching  feet  of  that  great  July.  And  so  the  senior 
class  of  Bonn  was  nobly  and  irregularly  graduated, 
and  marched  away. 

In  those  fiery  days,  personal  tragedy  was  but  the 
little  tongue  of  flame  in  the  great  conflagration.  Men 
swept  to  their  doom  with  ecstasy,  and  the  firm-set  lip 
trembled  only  when  it  gave  the  last  kiss  at  home. 
Women,  old  in  trouble,  took  upon  their  souls  one 
anguish  more,  and  uttered  no  complaint.  Girls  — 
sometimes  I  think  that  the  girls  had  the  hardest  of  it. 
Nobody  thought  so  then,  or  perhaps  believes  it  now. 
Who  has  ever  measured  the  depths  of  the  possibility 
of  suffering  in  a  girl's  heart  ?  She  is  so  unused  to  life, 
so  young  and  trustful  of  joy !  She  expects  to  be  happy ; 
she  has  endured  so  little,  she  has  hoped  so  much; 
she  tastes  of  tenderness  and  anticipates  delight;  she 

14 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

prays  to  God,  she  adores  her  lover,  and  believes  in  her 
fair  fate.  Why  do  the  gray-haired  women  weep? 
What  is  this  prattle  about  trouble  that  she  overhears  ? 
By  love  she  is  incredulous  of  sorrow.  By  youth  she 
overcomes  the  world. 

Miriam,  in  her  father's  house,  sat  dumb.  In  an  hour, 
in  a  moment,  it  seemed,  her  catastrophe  had  come 
upon  her.  At  the  call  for  three  hundred  thousand 
more  to  fight  the  war  out,  he  had  given  himself, 
without  doubt  or  delay.  The  captain  of  the  college 
militia  had  dashed  into  service  without  a  commis 
sion,  and  came  to  her  in  his  private's  uniform  to  say 
good -by. 

In  the  whirlwind  of  those  few  wild  days,  leisure  was 
the  inaccessible  thing,  and  privacy  impossible.  He 
came:  it  was  a  matter  of  moments.  He  was  allowed 
a  day  in  which  to  visit  his  home  in  New  York;  for  he 
had  a  mother  and  a  sister.  They  had  rights.  Miriam 
had  none.  Who  thought  to  leave  the  boy  and  girl 
alone  together  ?  It  did  not  occur  to  the  unimaginative 
mother  of  an  unengaged  daughter  to  force  the  situ 
ation,  or  to  create  a  difficult  tete-a-tete  in  a  house  full 
of  company  long  ago  bidden  for  the  spoiled  com 
mencement,  and  staying  over  out  of  sheer  excitement, 
to  discuss  the  national  emergency.  It  did  not  occur 
to  the  Professor  of  English  Literature,  who  bustled 
in  to  bid  his  favorite  student  Godspeed,  and  to  tell 
him  that  the  university  was  proud  of  him.  Bab- 

15 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

bling  guests  overflowed  the  parlors  and  library,  the 
piazza,  and  the  hall  itself. 

It  was  raining,  and  the  garden  was  uninhabitable. 
The  two  young  people,  in  the  pitiable  publicity  which, 
forced  at  the  crisis  of  fate,  has  separated  thousands  of 
approaching  lives,  said  farewell.  They  looked  miser 
ably  into  each  other's  eyes.  Miriam  heard  an  old 
clergyman  in  the  back  parlor  doorway  talking  about 
Arianism.  A  professor's  wife  in  the  hall  was  cackling 
to  another  about  the  lint  that  she  had  picked  for  the 
soldiers.  Dully  the  girl  was  conscious  that  her  father 
—  dear  old  stupid  father!  —  stood  behind  her.  He 
was  telling  Harold  for  the  third  time  that  Bonn  was 
proud  of  her  noble  boys.  Before  everybody  she  and 
Harold  clasped  hands.  Before  all  those  people  she 
saw  him  move  across  the  threshold  of  her  father's 
door,  and  step  out  into  the  summer  storm  and  leave 
her.  She  stirred  into  the  vestibule,  and  stood  beside 
him.  In  the  garden  the  elm  trees  were  tossing  about ; 
a  wet  gust  blew  against  her  thin  dress,  —  she  wore 
a  white  organdie  muslin  with  a  little  van -colored 
pattern;  she  shivered  in  the  wind.  From  the  stone 
wall  drops  were  dripping  on  the  iron  seat.  The  yellow 
lilies  lay  over  in  the  gravel,  beaten  by  the  storm. 

"I  shall  write  to  you,"  he  said,  "I  shall  write." 
He  wrung  her  cold  hand.  She  gave  one  look  at  his 
bowed  face;  its  expression  awed  her.  She  saw  him 
put  on  his  military  cap.  He  turned  and  lifted  it  when 

16 


THE  OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

he  had  reached  the  sidewalk.  All  the  people  stood 
about,  but  he  looked  only  at  her. 

Miriam  made  her  way  back  through  the  com 
mencement  company.  She  felt  her  way  upstairs  by 
the  banisters,  for  she  seemed  to  be  going  blind.  She 
held  the  muscles  of  her  face  stiff.  Everybody  could 
see  her.  She  was  only  an  unbetrothed  girl,  —  she 
had  no  right  to  cry. 

She  got  up  to  her  room,  thrust  open  her  blinds,  and 
leaned  against  the  dimity  curtain.  But  she  could  not 
see  him.  She  thought  she  heard  the  tread  of  his  ring 
ing  feet  as  they  turned  the  corner. 

She  tottered  to  her  white  bed,  and  flung  herself  face 
down.  And  the  people  babbled  in  the  parlors.  But 
the  old  clergyman  talked  no  more  of  Arianism.  Word 
had  just  been  sent  him  by  telegraph  from  New  Hamp 
shire  that  his  only  son  had  enlisted  for  the  war.  By 
and  by  a  maid  knocked  at  Miriam's  door;  for  young 
Mr.  Seyd  had  come;  he  would  go  to  camp  in  the 
morning. 

"Oh, I  can't  —  I  can't!"  moaned  Miriam.  "Mag 
gie —  manage  somehow!"  She  held  her  arms  up  to 
the  other  girl,  her  mother's  servant,  the  only  other 
young  thing  in  the  house. 

"An'  that  you  sha'n't ! "  cried  Maggie.  She  went  up 
to  Miriam,  and  out  of  her  warm  Irish  heart,  and  on 
the  passion  of  the  solemn  time  that  washed  out  all 
little  human  laws  and  lines,  she  kissed  her  young 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

mistress,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  her  life,  and 
went  away  without  a  question  or  a  word. 

Confused  phrases  ran  through  Miriam's  burning 
brain:  "Father  and  mother  hast  thou  put  far  from 
me  —  in  this  hour. "  Only  the  Irish  maid  under 
stood. 

From  Washington  he  wrote  to  her.  It  was  a  short 
note,  dashed  off  in  pencil  upon  the  journey,  on  a  leaf 
torn  from  his  diary.  Already  the  solemn  strangeness 
of  his  sacrifice  had  moved  between  them.  In  a  day 
the  college  boy  had  become  a  man.  He  had  other 
things  to  think  of  besides  herself.  He  wrote  of  the 
national  emergency;  he  spoke  passionately  of  the 
Flag  and  its  perils;  he  said  that  he  hoped  to  go  soon 
into  action.  He  should  write  her  a  letter  before  then. 

"This  is  all  I  can  manage  now.  I  write  on  my 
cap,  in  the  cars.  The  boys  are  chattering  about  me. 
They  are  all  in  excellent  courage.  Some  of  them  are 
talking  about  my  being  made  lieutenant.  It  was  too 
bad  all  those  old  coves  were  round  when  I  came  to 
say  good -by.  I  wanted  to  see  you  alone. 

"  I  shall  write  again,  when  I  can  collect  my  thoughts 
as  I  wish  to.  I  shall  certainly  write  before  I  go  on 
the  field.  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you,  and  I 
want  to  hear  from  you  before  we  go  under  fire." 

And  this  was  all.  From  the  young  soldier  no  other 
message  came  to  her.  The  poor  girl  tied  her  thick 
winter  veil  across  her  hunted  eyes,  and  shadowed  the 

18 


THE   OATH    OF   ALLEGIANCE 

post-office,  anticipating  all  the  mails  before  her  father 
got  them.  She  knew  that  the  regiment  had  been 
ordered  to  the  front,  —  everybody  knew  that.  She 
knew  no  more  than  everybody  knew.  There  was  no 
letter. 

Days  writhed  by,  as  such  days  do ;  weeks,  —  how 
many  she  could  not  have  told.  She  lived  like  a  crea 
ture  under  vivisection,  who  understands  what  the  men 
of  science  are  saying  around  the  torture-table.  Her 
mother  had  begun  to  notice  how  she  looked,  and  the 
Irish  girl  watched  her  furtively. 

The  professor's  wife  came  slowly  upstairs  one 
burning  midsummer  day,  and  pushed  open  the  un 
latched  door  of  her  daughter's  room.  The  blinds  were 
closed,  and  Miriam  sat  in  the  green  darkness  by  the 
window,  in  the  great  old-fashioned  chair,  cushioned 
in  white,  that  she  had  gone  to  sleep  in  when  she  was 
so  little  that  her  feet  could  not  touch  the  floor.  Her 
face  was  turned  toward  the  lines  of  fiery  light  that 
blazed  between  the  slats  of  the  blinds;  her  head  lay 
back  against  the  chair. 

Mrs.  Thornell  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Her  countenance  was  agitated. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  with  embarrassment,  "Pro 
fessor  Seyd  has  news  from  Tom.  There  has  been  — 
I  think  they  called  it  a  skirmish  —  it  was  not  a  great 
battle  —  but  Tom  was  wounded ;  not  dangerously,  I 
think.  They  have  gone  on  to  bring  him  home." 

19 


THE   OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

Miriam  opened  her  eyes ;  she  did  not  turn  her  head, 
nor  did  she  rind  it  necessary  to  speak. 

"  And  —  there  were  others  hurt  —  and  —  Harold 
Grand." 

"  You  need  not  try, Mother,  "saidMiriam  distinctly. 
"  Maggie  told  me.  She  brought  me  the  paper. " 

"He  died  nobly ! "  faltered  the  mother.  "  And  —  it 
was  instantaneous,  my  dear.  He  did  not  suffer  —  like 


some." 


"Thank  you,  Mother,"  said  Miriam.  She  turned 
her  head  away  from  the  hot  window,  and  shut  her 
eyes.  Her  head  lay  heavily  against  the  high  white 
chair.  Helpless  and  distanced,  her  mother  stood  un 
certain.  Then  she  stole  away  and  went  downstairs. 

Miriam  crawled  across  the  room,  and  locked  her 
door.  After  a  little  she  went  back  and  unlocked  it. 
She  had  no  right,  she  remembered,  even  to  turn  the 
key  upon  her  unnamed,  unauthorized,  unmaidenly 
anguish.  She  stood  alone  in  her  room,  and  lifted  her 
arms  up  once  to  the  invisible  sky.  In  her  face  was  one 
of  the  challenges  that  God  himself  must  find  it  hard 
to  answer. 

"How  do  women  bear  their  lives?"  she  said. 

God  who  sends  them  only  knows.  She  bore  hers  as 
other  women  do  who  are  smitten  as  she  was.  Per 
haps,  on  the  whole,  she  bore  it  better  than  many. 
But  she  was  very  young. 

The  letter  did  not  come.  At  first  she  looked  for  it 

20 


THE   OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

a  little,  with  the  defiant  hopefulness  of  youth.  It  was 
a  long  time  before  she  gave  up  haunting  the  post- 
office.  She  went  in  the  morning  sometimes,  but  in  the 
evening  always.  Her  hand  shook  so  that  the  clerk  no 
ticed  it,  when  she  took  her  father's  seven  o'clock  mail. 
In  time  the  reaction  struck,  and  a  sick  horror  of  the 
whole  thing  came  upon  her.  Then  she  went  no  more. 
"I  shall  write  to  you,"  he  had  said.  But  he  had  not 
written. 

They  brought  him  to  his  mother's  home  in  New 
York;  and  although  it  was  vacation,  a  delegation  from 
the  college  went  on  to  his  military  funeral.  His 
mother  and  sister,  in  their  black  dresses,  tied  the 
flowers  about  his  sword,  and  the  scattered  students 
wore  crape  upon  their  arms  for  thirty  days. 

Miriam  wore  her  gray  dress  with  the  blue  trimming, 
and  the  muslin  with  the  bright  spot.  She  would  have 
gone  on  her  knees  for  the  shelter  of  a  black  veil  in 
which  to  hide  her  face  from  the  eyes  of  people.  But 
Miriam  had  no  right  to  the  sacred  insignia  of  mourn 
ing,  in  those  days  thought  as  necessary  to  the  decency 
of  grief  as  tears.  She  pinned  on  her  bright  ribbons, 
and  trimmed  her  hat  with  flowers;  she  went  to  merry 
makings  with  the  young  people,  as  she  must.  She 
laughed  when  she  had  to.  She  did  not  cry :  that  was 
the  worst  thing  about  it.  She  had  never  cried  since 
Maggie  brought  her  the  paper  with  the  list. 

After  a  while  she  stopped  wearing  those  two  dresses, 

21 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

the  gray,  and  the  organdie  that  she  had  on  the  last 
time  she  saw  him.  She  folded  them  and  put  them 
away,  for  she  could  not  bear  to  look  at  them.  Only 
girls  will  understand  this. 

On  the  guitar,  now,  she  did  not  play.  She  could  not 
hide  that;  it  must  stand  in  the  parlor,  in  its  usual 
corner.  But  she  put  away  the  sheet  of  music  on 
which  were  penciled  the  notes  of  the  old  English  song 
that  she  had  sung  to  him :  — 

"Over  the  mountains, 
And  under  the  graves, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way." 

But  he  had  not  found  out  the  way. 

So  she  took  up  her  part  in  the  long  tragedy  of  life, 
and  supported  it,  as  her  nature  was.  Her  pride  was 
as  fierce  as  her  love;  the  twain  seized  her  like  fighting 
Titans,  and  tare  her.  She  stood  her  ground  between 
them,  as  strong  youth  does;  and  one  day  she  opened 
her  sad  blue  eyes  and  noticed  that  she  was  young  no 
more. 

It  took  the  most  ardent  lover  she  had  ever  had  to 
call  her  attention  to  this  unobtrusive  fact;  which  was 
the  last  thing  that  he  had  intended  to  do.  It  was  a 
June  day,  in  the  year  1877,  when  Tom  Seyd  spoke 
to  her,  —  fifteen  years  after  he  and  Harold  had  en 
listed.  Tom  had  loved  her  all  his  life;  he  had  never 
loved  any  girl  but  Miriam.  She  was  a  woman  now, 
thirty- five  years  old,  and  he  a  man. 

22 


THE   OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

Since  young  Seyd  had  become  his  father's  assistant 
professor  he  had  been  an  absorbed,  ambitious  man; 
but  he  had  forced  the  leisure  to  see  her  so  often 
that  she  had  become  in  a  measure  dependent  upon 
his  evident  tenderness,  as  he  meant  she  should. 
Indeed,  she  would  have  missed  it.  She  cherished 
beautiful,  preposterous  ideals  of  friendship,  as  lonely 
women  do;  dreaming  of  noble  devotion  which  asked 
for  nothing  in  return.  She  blessed  Tom  Seyd  in  her 
desolate  heart  that  he  had  never  "made  love"  to  her. 
and  never  would. 

So  when  he  told  her,  that  day,  without  prelude  or 
apology,  that  he  had  always  loved  her,  she  experienced 
a  suffocating,  moral  shock. 

"It  won't  do,"  said  Seyd  firmly.  "It  won't  go,  all 
this  about  friendship.  I  do  not  feel  the  need  of  a 
friend.  It  is  a  wife  I  want.  I  love  you." 

"But  not  in  that  way!  "  protested  Miriam. 

"I  love  you  in  just  that  way,"  replied  the  young 
man,  as  quietly  as  if  he  had  been  analyzing  a  crystal 
before  the  sophomore  class.  "I  do  not  love  you  in 
any  other,  and  I  never  have." 

"Then  you  have  deceived  me!"  cried  Miriam, 
growing  as  pale  as  a  pear-blossom. 

"I  undeceive  you,  then,"  said  Seyd.  "I  love  you, 
and  I  believe  that  I  could  make  you  happy,  if  you 
would  let  me  try." 

He  stated  his  case  with  something  of  his  father's 

23 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

scientific  manner;  dryly,  so  far  as  the  words  went. 
But  his  voice  shook,  and  his  hand.  And  into  his  gray 
eyes,  that  she  had  always  thought  so  commonplace 
and  " worthy,"  she  could  not  look;  for  they  beat  and 
blinded  hers.  She  felt  in  them  that  which  the  most 
lovable  of  women  do  not  often  see,  the  loyalty  of  an 
unselfish,  unswerving,  lifelong  love. 

She  knew  good  women  who  would  have  given  their 
lives  —  it  was  in  her  heart  to  say,  would  have  sold 
their  souls  —  for  love  like  this. 

And  for  what  should  she  fling  it  from  her?  For 
the  memory  of  a  memory,  the  shadow  of  a  wraith,  the 
echo  of  the  voice  of  an  unseen  spirit  flitting  through 
a  dark  and  ghostly  realm;  for  an  oath  of  allegiance  to 
a  claim  that  had  never  existed ;  for  love  of  a  boy  who 
had  not  loved  her  enough  to  find  a  way  to  tell  her  so 
before  he  died. 

"I  have  waited  fifteen  years,"  said  Tom  Seyd 
patiently.  "I  have  not  intruded  on  you,  have  I? 
I  have  not  been  stupid  about  it,  I  think.  I  understood 
how  it  was.  But  I  have  loved  you  all  the  same  and 
all  the  while." 

Her  white  cheek  burned.  A  sacred  shame,  even 
after  all  these  years,  covered  her  with  womanly  confu 
sion.  She  remembered  how  she  used  to  be  called 
the  proudest  girl  in  the  college  town.  Did  he  taunt 
her  with  her  pitiable  love?  "Let  me  go!"  she 
gasped. 

24 


THE   OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

"  No,  no,"  he  pleaded.  "  Sit  down  here  beside  me — 
for  a  minute.  Listen  to  me  —  here." 

Then  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and  behold,  he  had  led  her 
to  the  painted  iron  seat  against  the  garden  wall.  The 
elm  tree  rose  above  it,  venerable  and  calm.  The 
white  lilac  was  in  blossom;  the  bees  of  Bonn  sang  to 
the  honeysuckle ;  in  rows  the  yellow  lilies  were  begin 
ning  to  die. 

But  Miriam  stood  rigid  and  tall.  She  looked 
through  him  and  on,  beyond  him,  as  if  he  had  been 
the  ghost,  and  that  dead  boy  the  living  man. 

"If  I  ever  listen  to  you,"  she  breathed,  "it  will  not 
be  here." 

And  with  this  she  fled  and  left  him.  But  his  heart 
leaped  with  hope  and  madness;  and  he  went  down 
to  his  father's  laboratory  to  try  a  difficult  experiment, 
in  the  delirium  that  a  man  knows  but  once  in  life. 

Miriam  went  up  the  garden  walk  and  into  the 
house.  She  felt  her  way  by  the  branches  of  trees  and 
shrubs;  for  she  had,  for  the  second  time  in  her  life, 
that  feeling  of  one  about  to  be  stricken  blind.  The 
house  was  still  that  night,  and  empty.  The  professor 
was  at  faculty  meeting,  and  the  professor's  wife  at  a 
commencement  tea.  It  was  one  of  the  rare  occasions 
when  a  grown  daughter  in  her  father's  home  may 
command  the  freedom  and  solitude  which  become  so 
precious  as  we  grow  old. 

Maggie  brought  the  tea-urn,  but  said  nothing. 

25 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

Maggie  had  grown  old  and  sober.  There  was  a 
grocer's  boy  who  never  came  back  from  Antietam. 
But  Maggie  wore  his  ring,  and  shared  her  quarter's 
wages  with  his  mother.  Miriam  looked  with  a  fierce 
envy,  sometimes,  at  the  Irish  girl. 

It  came  on  to  be  a  moonlit  night,  sultry  and  sweet. 
Miriam  went  to  her  own  room,  but  could  not  stay 
there.  She  caught  up  her  straw  hat  and  wandered 
out.  House,  garden,  home,  seemed  too  small  to  hold 
her.  She  struck  into  the  street,  and  began  to  walk. 
Automatically  her  feet  turned  towards  the  post-office, 
as  they  used  to  do  fifteen  years  before,  when  the 
seven  o'clock  mail  came  in.  The  boys  were  singing  on 
the  campus.  All  the  college  town  was  bright  and  alive. 

"I  am  the  only  ghost  in  it,"  thought  Miriam. 

Her  father's  mail  had  been  taken,  and  she  came 
wearily  back.  Into  the  dark  parlor  the  moonlight  fell 
through  the  long  muslin  curtains.  The  guitar  stood 
in  the  corner.  For  the  first  time  for  fifteen  years  she 
took  it  in  her  trembling  hands.  There  was  no  one  to 
listen.  She  played  and  sang:  — 

"Over  the  mountains 
And  under  the  graves, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way." 

With  the  wail  of  the  worse  than  dead  her  voice 
faltered  through  the  empty  house.  She  laid  her  cheek 
against  the  old  guitar  and  patted  it. 

26 


THE   OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

"Oh,  good -by,  dear!"  she  said. 

The  college  boys  on  the  campus  began  to  sing  those 

cruel  army  songs,  fifteen  years  old.   What  right  had 

they,  these  fortunate,  light-hearted  sons  of  pampered 

peace,  to  torture  people  who  lived  the  war  through? 

" Farewell,  farewell,  my  own  true  love!" 

Impossible!  Impossible  to  think  about  Tom  Seyd 
till  the  boys  had  finished  singing!  And  it  was  impera 
tive  to  think  about  Tom  Seyd.  Miriam  put  down  the 
guitar,  and  ran  upstairs  with  her  fingers  in  her  ears. 
If  she  should  listen  to  this  live  man,  dead  ones  must 
be  kept  still.  She  cried  out  as  if  the  boys  of  Bonn 
could  hear  her,  or  would  regard  her  if  they  did,  "Oh, 
boys,  stop  that  singing!  ...  It  murders  us,  - 
women  grown  so  old  that  you  have  forgotten  we're 
alive!" 

When  the  knock  came  at  her  door,  she  did  not  hear 
it  at  the  first ;  for  she  was  moving  through  those  spaces 
where  sound  is  not,  nor  time,  nor  human  interruption. 
She  was  lying  on  her  bed,  with  her  face  buried  in  the 
pillows.  The  moonlight  built  a  bridge  straight  through 
the  middle  of  the  dark  room.  She  got  up  and  crossed 
it,  to  come  to  Maggie,  who  stood  upon  the  threshold. 

"Oh,  Miss  Miriam!"  said  Maggie,  with  broken 
breath.  "For  the  love  of  God,  come  here!  Come  out 
to  me  lamp  and  see  ...  for  I  darsen't  go  into  the 
dark  to  give  it  yez!" 

27 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

In  the  hall,  a  hand -lamp  was  set  upon  the  little 
table.  Maggie  tottered  beside  it;  the  cheek  of  the 
Irish  girl  was  whiter  than  the  paper  in  her  shaking 
hand. 

For  she  held  a  letter,  stained  and  marred  and  time- 
discolored,  bearing  the  forgotten  red  postage  stamp 
of  the  denomination  of  the  war;  a  letter  as  old  as  — 
O  God!  as  old  as  anguish!  For  when  Miriam  dashed 
it  up  against  the  light,  the  house  rang  with  such  a  cry 
as  it  would  have  broken  his  heart,  in  heaven,  to  hear. 

"It  is  his  ghost/'  sobbed  Maggie.  "His  ghost  has 
taken  his  pen  in  hand  to  comfort  yez!" 

But  when  has  it  been  recorded  in  the  heavens  above, 
or  on  the  earth  beneath,  that  a  ghost  could  write  as 
he  had  written  ?  Living  was  the  hand  and  living  was 
the  love  that  penned  those  worn  and  faded  pages. 

With  a  clang  she  locked,  and  double-locked,  and 
triple-locked  the  door,  to  read  this  message  from  be 
yond  the  grave.  She  had  the  right  now.  —  She  could 
keep  the  whole  world  off.  She  and  her  sacred  joy 
and  her  holy  grief  were  sanctified  at  last.  He  loved 
her.  He  had  loved  her  then  and  always.  In  a  few 
manly,  ardent  words,  written  upon  the  march,  he  had 
poured  his  heart  out,  and  placed  it  in  her  keeping. 
He  had  meant  to  write  differently,  he  said.  He  had 
waited  to  find  a  better  time.  But  war  made  no  way 
for  love.  Would  she  listen  to  this  poor  love-letter? 
Spoiled,  he  said,  as  so  much  else  was  spoiled,  —  the 

28 


THE   OATH   OF  ALLEGIANCE 

lives  of  men  and  the  happiness  of  women,  —  by  the 
accidents  of  war. 

"  I  shall  give  it  to  one  of  the  boys  who  is  on  the  sick- 
list  and  has  a  furlough,"  he  wrote,  "and  he  will  get 
it  mailed  for  me,  —  in  Washington,  I  hope,  or  even 
in  New  York.  I  think  it  will  go  more  quickly  so,  and 
surer.  Our  mails  are  irregular,  you  know,  and  un 
certain.  Write  to  me,  if  there  is  time.  We  may  be 
called  into  action  any  hour.  I  hope  I  sha'n't  disgrace 
myself,  for  your  sake.  I  think  I  shall  behave  better 
if  I  can  get  your  answer,  —  either  way  you  put  it. 
I  have  never  dared  believe  you  really  love  me.  But  if 
you  do,  or  if  you  can,  —  enough,  I  mean,  to  be  my 
wife  some  day,  —  I  don't  think  I  could  die  if  I  knew 
that.  I  should  come  back  all  right.  '  Love  would  find 
out  the  way, '  you  used  to  sing  —  it  seems  fifty  years 
ago!  I  shall  write  my  mother  about  you,  if  you  give 
me  the  right,  at  once.  She  and  my  sister  would  want 
to  see  you.  I  send  you  that  old  ring  of  mother's  you 
used  to  see  me  wear.  It  is  the  best  I  can  do,  on  the 
march.  Wear  it  for  me,  dear,  if  you  do  love  me,  till 
I  see  your  face  again.  For  I  am 

Your  own,  and  only  yours, 

Till  death  and  after  it, 

HAROLD  GRAND." 

She  read.  She  clasped  the  gray  and  tattered  paper 
to  her  bosom  and  buried  it  there.  She  fell  upon  her 

29 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

knees,  and  lifted  her  streaming  face  to  heaven.  And 
then,  for  the  first  time  in  all  those  years,  she  broke 
into  terrible  sobs. 

So  much  of  this  story  of  a  letter  as  is  true  I  tell; 
and  for  more  I  cannot  vouch.  What  was  the  fate  of 
the  message  for  fifteen  years  withheld  from  the 
stricken  girl?  Perhaps  the  soldier  on  the  furlough 
died.  Perhaps,  at  the  time,  his  pockets  were  not 
searched.  Was  he  some  friendless  fellow,  for  whose 
affairs  nobody  cared  ?  Did  the  letter  slip  between  the 
lining  and  the  army  blue?  Did  the  uniform  pass 
from  hand  to  hand  ?  Perhaps  it  was  cut  up  some  day 
for  a  veteran's  son,  and  so  the  worn  envelope  slipped 
out,  and  some  one  said  to  one  of  the  children,  "There 
is  an  old  army  letter,  sealed  and  stamped,  and  never 
sent.  Run  and  mail  it,  my  dear.  We  must  not  open 
it  or  keep  it.  It  may  be  some  poor  girl  has  waited  for 
it  all  these  years."  Whether  in  this  way  or  in  that 
way  God's  mysterious  finger  traced  the  lines  by  which 
the  dead  boy's  declaration  of  love  did  force  its  way 
to  her,  who  shall  say?  I  know  no  more  than  you, 
no  more  than  she;  for  I  tell  it  only  as  it  was  told  to 
me. 

Only  this  I  can  append.  When  young  Professor 
Seyd  came  to  the  house  again,  that  evening,  the  Irish 
girl  stood  in  the  front  door  and  barred  the  way. 

"It's  no  use,  Professor  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  "an' 
that  I  takes  upon  meself  to  say.  There 's  a  dead  man 

30 


THE   OATH   OF   ALLEGIANCE 

got  ahead  of  yez.  Me  and  you  are  nothin',  Mr.  Tom, 
-  nothin'  to  her  but  just  livin'  folks. " 

Then  Maggie  told  him  what  had  happened.  And 
Tom  Seyd  went  back  to  his  father's  laboratory  with 
out  a  word.  In  this  he  showed  the  discretion  of  his 
temperament,  which  accepts  a  fact,  be  it  what  it  will 
and  lead  it  where  it  may,  without  an  idle  protest. 

On  that  great  glad  night,  she  had  forgotten  him  as 
utterly  as  annihilation.  The  Irish  girl  was  wise.  He 
was  nothing  to  Miriam  but  a  living  man. 

The  elm  tree  in  the  garden  could  have  taught  him 
that;  and  the  Persian  lilac  might  have  told  him,  "It 
was  not  love  she  gave  you."  But  the  yellow  lilies 
kept  awake  to  watch  for  her. 

She  came  at  midnight,  when  all  her  father's  house 
was  still.  She  wore  the  old  white  muslin  dress  with 
the  little  colored  pattern.  She  held  her  head  like  a 
bride,  and  trod  like  the  Queen  of  Joy.  Nor  God  nor 
man  could  say  her  nay,  now.  Proudly  she  took  upon 
her  soul  the  oath  of  allegiance  which  binds  the  living 
to  the  dead,  —  that  ancient  oath,  so  often  taken,  so 
often  broken,  and  sometimes  kept.  She  stopped  be 
neath  the  elm,  and  stood  beside  the  iron  seat  against 
the  garden-wall.  The  hot  night  had  grown  cool 
and  calm.  The  moon-light  lay  at  the  flood.  There 
Miriam  put  his  mother's  ring  upon  her  marriage 
finger;  and  there  she  lifted  from  the  earth  to  heaven 
the  solemn  face  of  the  happiest  woman  in  the  land. 


COVERED   EMBERS 

WHEN  the  stenographer  knocked  at  the  door,  John 
Herrick  laid  down  his  brief  impatiently. 

"I  believe  I  told  you  not  to  disturb  me,"  he  re 
marked.  His  manner  had  "the  courteous  formality 
with  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  addressing  this 
young  person. 

Her  brows  wrinkled.  She  had  the  haughty  pom 
padour  roll,  the  coquettish  puff  of  white  tulle  at  the 
back  of  her  neck,  and  the  severe  black -silk  cuffs 
characteristic  of  her  class. 

"I  have  done  nothing  but  see  people  all  the  morn 
ing.  I  reminded  you  that  I  would  see  no  one  else 
until  I  finished  this.  It  is  important.  You  will  say 
that  I  am  very  much  engaged." 

"But,  you  see,"  suggested  the  girl,  shutting  the 
door  behind  her,  "this  is  a  new  one,  from  up-country, 
I  guess,  —  I  should  say  as  much  as  thirty  miles  out ; 
perhaps  forty.  He  's  got  to  get  the  train.  His  business 
is  very  important,  —  but  they  all  say  that, "  admitted 
the  experienced  office-girl.  "He  says  he  's  got  to  get 
the  one  o'clock  train  back  to  China. " 

"Oh,  very  well,"  replied  the  lawyer,  "if  he  comes 
as  far  as  that  —  I  Jd  better  see  him. " 

The  circumstance  that  John  Herrick  was  a  gentle- 

32 


COVERED   EMBERS 


man  indescribably  affected  the  new  client,  who  had 
entered  the  room  noisily;  he  brought  the  aggressive 
scowl  of  a  man  whose  acquaintance  with  the  bar  had 
been  limited  to  the  shysters  he  had  met  and  the  news 
paper  reports  that  he  had  read. 

"I  came,"  began  the  man,  with  a  natural  tactless 
ness  not  lessened  by  embarrassment,  "because  you 
was  recommended.  That 's  the  only  reason. " 

"Ah!"  replied  Herrick,  with  a  charming  smile;  "to 
whom  do  I  owe  this  pleasure?" 

"To  last  Sunday's  'Planet/  sir.  You  won  that 
case.  Me  and  my  wife  have  been  reading  it  up.  My 
name  is  Dinsmore  —  of  Dinsmore  &  Peeler." 

The  visitor,  who  had  begun  to  speak  in  an  orator 
ical  key,  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  prayer-meeting, 
now  dropped  from  the  combative  to  the  conversa 
tional,  and  took  the  chair  which  the  lawyer  had 
suavely  indicated. 

Herrick  sat  watching  him  with  a  clear  scutiny, 
shrewd  but  straightforward.  Dinsmore  was  a  big, 
beetling  man ;  his  thick  hair  and  his  jungle  of  a  beard 
gave  one  the  impression  that  he  was  top  heavy.  His 
eyes  were  black,  and  of  a  smouldering  sort;  on  the 
surface  they  were  cool,  or  even  cold,  and  his  manner 
was  arbitrary. 

Herrick  thought:  "Born  tyrant.  I  pity  his  wife." 
But  he  said:  "I  am  at  your  service.  What  can  I  do 
for  you,  Mr.  Dinsmore?" 

33 


COVERED  EMBERS 


"Well,  you  see,"  blurted  Dinsmore,  "me  and  my 
wife  can't  get  on.  We  want  a  divorce. " 

The  lawyer's  expression  changed  indefinably.  In 
difference  and  politeness  strengthened  into  gravity  and 
attention.  For  this  class  of  cases  he  cherished  a  dis 
taste  out  of  proportion  to  his  success  in  the  recent 
instance  which  had  attracted  comment  in  the  press 
and  added  to  his  already  brilliant  reputation.  In 
fact,  he  had  only  touched  that  out  of  chivalry;  the 
woman  was  wronged,  and  she  was  dying. 

"Ah?"  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  the 
motion  of  a  man  who  has  made  up  his  mind  not  to 
neglect  the  client.  "That 's  a  pity. " 

Dinsmore's  jaw  fell  a  little,  and  he  sat  staring  fool 
ishly.  This  was  not  what  he  expected  from  an  attorney 
who  was  about  to  take  his  money  for  the  disruption 
of  a  home. 

Embarrassed  by  he  knew  not  what,  and  resentful 
he  knew  not  why,  he  hurriedly  began  to  talk  as  if  he 
had  been  cross-examined ;  in  point  of  fact,  the  lawyer 
had  not  yet  put  a  question. 

"I  am  Robert  Dinsmore,  of  the  firm  of  Dinsmore 
&  Peeler.  There  ain't  any  Peeler  —  he  died  of  a 
shakin'  palsy,  but  we  go  by  the  name  the  neighbors 
are  used  to.  We  're  in  paint  and  wall-paper.  My 
address  is  Southeast  Street,  China.  My  wife's  name  is 
Anna  —  christened  Diana  to  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church.  I  'm  a  Baptist  myself.  We  don't  agree  in 

34 


COVERED  EMBERS 


religion  more  'n  we  do  in  anything.  We  ain't  happy 
together.  We  can't  get  on.  We  want  to  be  divorced." 

"Why?" 

"What  business  is  it  of  yourn  ?  "  shot  back  the  client. 

"  I  can  give  you  the  address  of  some  other  attorney," 
suggested  Herrick,  smiling.  "There  are  many.  You 
can  take  your  choice." 

"By  gum!"  exploded  the  mechanic,  "I  chose  you, 


sir." 


"Very  well,  sir.  Then  you  will  answer  my  ques 
tions,  and  do  it  like  a  gentleman. " 

"I  ask  your  pardon,"  slowly  said  the  client,  after 
some  difficult  thought.  "Goon.  I  ain't  used  to  this 
sorter  thing  —  nor  I  ain't  as  used  to  gentlemen  as  you 
be,  Mr.  Herrick.  Go  ahead." 

"Now  we're  friends,"  observed  Herrick,  in  his 
winning  way..  "And  we  can  get  together.  Foes  can't, 
you  know.  And  counsellor  and  client  must  work  to 
gether,  as  much  as  —  well,  in  another  sense,  like  man 
and  wife.  Litigation,  like  marriage,  demands  har 
mony  —  while  creating  discord, "  he  appended,  under 
breath. 

"That's  just  it,"  urged  Dinsmore.  "There  ain't 
any  in  our  house.  It 's  one  eternal  and  infernal  bob- 
whizzle." 

"What  is  —  excuse  me;  the  word  is  unfamiliar  - 
what  is  your  definition  of  a  bob-whizzle  ?  " 

"Why,  it 's  a  —  it 's  a  bob-whizzle, "  answered  Dins- 

35 


COVERED   EMBERS 


more,  dogmatically.  "If  you'd  ever  been  bob- 
whizzled,  you'd  know  without  askiri*  what  bob- 
whizzlin'  means." 

"Possibly,"  returned  the  lawyer,  wheeling  in  his 
chair  and  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  opposite 
building;  its  dead  stone-wall  constituted  at  once  his 
foreground  and  perspective.  "But  if  you  will  have 
patience  with  my  ignorance  —  suppose  you  particu 
larize.  Precisely  what  do  you  understand  by  the 
striking  phrase  that  you  use  ?  Is  it  anything  —  that  is 
to  say—" 

"What!"  cried  the  house-painter. 

"Is  there  anything  in  this  case  such  as  your  present 
manner  forbids  me  to  define  too  particularly?" 

"What  do  you  take  us  for  ?"  gasped  the  client,  start 
ing  from  his  chair.  "Why,  we  're  respectable  folks!" 

"  I  understand  perfectly ;  of  course.  In  other  words, 
you  are  not  unfaithful  to  Mrs.  Dinsmore?" 

"Me  unfaithful  to  —  my  wife?  Good  Lord,  sir! 
Why,  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing!" 

"You  will  excuse  me  —  we  lawyers  have  to  be 
blunt,  you  know;  that  is  our  business.  There  is,  then, 
no  other  question  of  equal  or  greater  delicacy  in 
volved?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  're  drivin'  at,"  said  Dins- 
more,  with  ominous  precision. 

"I  mean  to  say  that,  as  a  husband,  you  have  no 
moral  grounds  of  complaint?" 

36 


COVERED   EMBERS 


"If  you  mean  to  insinerrate  that  my  wife  —  Diana 
Dinsmore  —  my  wife,  sir,  is  capable  of  —  of  any 
thing  —  like  that  -  •  If  you  was  n't  so  much  smaller  'n 
me,  I  'd  knock  you  off  a  fifty-foot  ladder  and  not  pick 
up  the  pieces." 

"Come,  Mr.  Dinsmore,"  replied  the  lawyer,  good- 
naturedly,  "be  a  reasonable  man.  We  agreed  to  be 
friends. " 

"I  did  n't  agree  to  set  here  and  have  my  wife  in 
sulted,"  cried  Dinsmore,  in  a  high  key. 

"You  don't  suppose  it 's  any  easier  for  a  lawyer  to 
put  such  questions  than  it  is  for  a  client  to  answer 
them,  do  you?"  asked  the  attorney,  with  a  self-pos 
session  which  now  began  to  act  upon  the  client's 
nerves,  like  slow  massage,  set  deep,  and  working  to 
the  surface.  "  Sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Why 
do  you  want  a  divorce?  Don't  drink,  do  you?" 

"I  'm  a  member  of  the  First  Baptist  Church  of 
China, "  answered  the  mechanic,  simply. 

"The  lady's  habits  are  good,  of  course ?  I  was  sure 
of  it." 

"We  ain't  a  dissipated  family,"  replied  the  client, 
in  a  weakened  voice. 

The  lawyer  went  firmly  on.  "What  is  the  ground 
of  complaint  ?  Desertion  ?  Won't  she  live  with  you  ? 
Have  you  ever  stayed  three  years  away  from  her?" 

"I  hain't  been  three  days  away  from  her  —  for 
thretty  years, "  answered  Dinsmore,  dully. 

37 


COVERED   EMBERS 


His  face  had  now  begun  to  assume  a  vacant  look; 
his  fingers  jerked  at  his  beard,  and  then  skulked  after 
his  hat.  Herrick  noticed  the  stains  under  the  man's 
nails,  where  vermilion  and  ocher  had  refused  to  yield 
to  turpentine  baths.  It  occurred  to  the  lawyer  that 
he  was  dealing  with  a  simple-hearted,  good  fellow, 
and  that  his  professional  aim  had  overshot. 

"I  ain't  an  edoocated  man,"  said  the  house- 
painter,  not  without  dignity.  "  We  can't  all  be,  I  sup 
pose.  But  I  've  got  some  sense  left  in  my  skull  —  if 
I  did  come  to  this  here  office.  And  I  say,  sir,  I  'd 
rather  be  a  house  and  sign  painter  —  walls  papered 
in  the  latest  styles  at  short  notice  —  an'  live  in  South 
east  Street,  China,  —  and  make  an  unfortnit  marriage 
with  a  good  woman,  —  than  mix  up  with  sin  an' 
uncleanness  the  way  you  do.  She  wanted  a  city 
lawyer,"  added  the  client,  plaintively;  "she  said  they 
knew  so  much.  I  guess  she  's  about  right  there  —  if 
you  're  a  specimen.  I  'd  rather  dry  out  in  China  — 
like  old  putty  —  than  have  your  learnin'  at  the  ex 
pense  of  studyin'  out  the  wickedness  of  this  tarnation 
town  —  or  livin'  in  it,  either." 

"And  so  would  I,"  answered  the  lawyer,  unex 
pectedly.  "You  have  altogether  the  advantage  of  us. 
It  is  that  which  makes  me  sorry  to  see  you  throw  it 
away.  What  did  you  say  was  the  reason  you  wanted 
a  divorce?" 

"Eternal  bob-whizzlin',"  urged  Dinsmore,  relaps- 

38 


COVERED   EMBERS 


ing  into  his  earlier  tone.  "She  gets  mad.  She  says 
things  she  had  n't  orter.  When  she  does,  I  don't  like 
my  wife.  She  don't  like  me,  neither.  She  says  I  order 
her  round." 

"Do  you?" 

"I  dare  say.  She  deserves  it.  Besides,  she's  a 
woman.  It 's  natur'  to  order  a  woman  round." 

"Well ? "  asked  the  lawyer.   " Go  on. " 

"That 's  about  all,"  replied  the  client. 

"Nothing  else?  Consider  carefully.  Are  you  tell 
ing  me  the  whole  story.  How  about  cruelty?  Any 
blows  ?  Did  you  ever  use  her  roughly  ?  " 

"I  may  not  be  a  gentleman,"  said  the  mechanic 
through  his  teeth,  "but  I  am  a  man.  Once  I  yanked 
her  apron-string,  and  mebbe  there  was  once  I  sorter 
pushed  her  into  the  wagon  of  a  Sunday  when  she  was 
all -fired  late, — and  another  time  I  knocked  a  coffee-cup 
outen  her  hand .  There  warn ' t  never  any thi ng  worse . ' ' 

"Did  she  ever  offer  any  personal  violence  to  you ?" 
pursued  the  lawyer;  his  mustache  twitched  a  little  as 
he  put  the  question. 

"Do  I  look  like  it?"  demanded  the  client,  fiercely; 
he  held  out  his  huge  clenched  fists. 

"You  never  were  five  years  in  prison,  I  am  sure?" 
inquired  Herrick,  with  his  perfect  manner. 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  the  client,  sopping  his  fore 
head  with  his  handkerchief.  "Any  more  questions 
where  that  come  from?" 

39 


COVERED   EMBERS 


"Then,"  returned  Herrick,  quietly,  "I  do  not  see 
that  you  can  obtain  a  divorce  —  in  this  State.  If  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  so,  I  think  it  is  fortunate  that  you 
cannot.  In  fact,  I  advise  you  strongly  against  such  a 
step.  I  am  sure  you  would  both  regret  it.  I  should 
rather  not  further  your  making  such  a  mistake  — 
even  if  the  statutes  permitted." 

"But  I  thought  that  was  the  way  you  fellars  made 
your  money! "  cried  the  client.  He  sat  with  his  mouth 
open,  staring. 

"There  is  one  thing,"  observed  the  attorney,  in  a 
low  voice,  "better  than  the  pursuit  of  money,  or  the 
habit  of  having  one's  own  way,  —  those  I  take  to  be 
the  two  great  errors  of  life  in  our  day,  —  and  that  is  a 
human  home.  It  is  the  best  thing  there  is  in  the  world. 
If  I  were  you,  I  should  save  yours  —  somehow." 

"But  we've  gotter  have  that  divorce,"  insisted 
Dinsmore,  obstinately.  "She  says  we  have." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Herrick,  taking  up  his  brief. 
"Bring  her  here  Friday  morning  at  half -past  ten.  I 
will  see  what  can  be  done. " 

It  was  early  May,  and  the  evening  was  chilly,  with 
a  formless  blur,  neither  fog  nor  rain.  Dinsmore 
shivered  as  he  walked  up  the  path  between  the  dahlia- 
and  peony -beds  and  pushed  open  his  own  door.  His 
wife  had  not  come  to  meet  him,  but  she  stood  in  the 
entry,  expectantly.  She  was  a  small  woman,  who  had 

40 


COVERED   EMBERS 


once  been  pretty;  she  was  neatly  dressed  in  black 
cashmere,  with  a  fresh  white  apron  trimmed  with 
edging  that  she  had  crocheted  on  winter  evenings; 
she  wore  a  modern  stock  of  lace  and  blue  ribbon  about 
her  still  well-shaped  throat.  Her  hair,  now  rather 
gray,  had  been  of  the  reddish  variety;  she  looked  like 
a  woman  with  a  warm  heart  and  a  red-haired  temper. 

"Lost  your  train,  did  n't  you?"  she  began,  nerv 
ously.  "I  've  been  watchin'  all  afternoon.  Supper  's 
hot  and  ready." 

"  I  'm  beat  out,"  said  Dinsmore,  handing  her  his  hat. 

She  took  it  with  the  readiness  of  a  wife  who  has 
always  waited  on  her  husband,  and  hung  it  up  for  him. 
As  she  did  this,  she  avoided  his  eyes,  for  she  felt  that 
these  evaded  her.  Dinsmore  put  his  lips  together  in 
the  obstinate  way  that  she  was  used  to ;  he  did  not— 
she  perceived  that  he  did  not  mean  to  —  speak. 

"Well?"  she  asked  timidly.  The  habit  of  being 
afraid  of  him  was  old  and  fixed ;  the  prospect  of  free 
dom  from  it  did  not  seem  to  help  her  any,  yet. 

"He  says  we  can't  do  it,"  said  Dinsmore,  stolidly. 
"There  ain't  any  law." 

"There 's  gotter  be  a  law!"  cried  the  red-haired 
wife.  "I  Ve  been  miser'ble  long  's  I  can  stand  it." 

"Guess  I  'm  even  with  ye  on  that  score,  Anna." 
The  painter  laughed  unpleasantly.  "You  got  no  call 
to  plume  yourself  that  I  know  of  —  beginnin'  to  bob- 
whizzle  already." 


COVERED   EMBERS 


"We  got  no  call  to  set  out  to  quarrel  that  I  know 
of,  either/'  returned  the  wife,  in  a  gentler  tone.  "It 
always  disagrees  with  you  to  get  riled  before  eatin'. 
You  must  be  powerful  hungry,  Robert." 

"I  could  eat  a  pint  o'  white  lead,"  admitted  the 
man,  with  a  mollified  air.  "Besides,  he  says  he'll 
think  it  over.  He  says  for  you  to  come  there  along  o' 
me  on  Friday,  and  he  '11  see." 

"My  spring  sack  won't  be  done  till  Saturday," 
urged  the  woman.  "But  mebbe  Mary  Lizzie  can  be 
drove  on  it  a  little.  Here  —  I  '11  bring  your  other 
coat.  You  go  lie  down  on  the  lounge  till  I  get  sup 
per  on.  I  don'  know  when  I  've  seen  you  so  beat." 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Dinsmore,  plaintively;  he 
yielded  to  feminine  sympathy  as  he  had  always  done, 
—  as  if  it  were  a  man's  right,  rather  than  a  woman's 
gift. 

"There's  shortcake."  said  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  cheer 
fully.  "I  got  the  first  strawberries  Dickson  had  for 
you.  They  ain't  half  so  sour  as  you  'd  expect,  —  and 
I  whipped  the  cream." 

Dinsmore  as  he  ate  his  supper  seemed  to  smooth  in 
soul  and  body;  one  could  see  the  outlines  of  his  cheek 
round  off  and  his  smouldering  eye  cool.  When  he 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  comfortable  tone. 

"There  ain't  a  woman  in  China  can  beat  you  on 
strawberry  shortcake,  Anna,  if  I  say  it  as  should  n't." 

His  wife  blushed  with  pleasure. 

42 


COVERED   EMBERS 


"It's  your  mother's  receipt,"  she  observed,  with  a 
tact  worthy  of  a  happier  marriage. 

Dinsmore  cordially  passed  his  plate  for  a  second 
piece. 

"You  see,"  he  said  abruptly,  "we  ain't  wicked 
enough,  neither  of  us." 

Mrs.  Dinsmore  lifted  the  pained  and  puzzled  ex 
pression  of  a  woman  who,  however  unfortunate  her 
matrimonial  experience,  has  never  disputed  the  in 
feriority  of  her  own  to  her  husband's  intellect.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  Robert  had  begun  to  discourse 
(he  was  naturally  a  little  oratorical)  upon  some 
abstruse  subject,  like  politics  or  savings-banks,  - 
one  upon  which  she  could  not  be  expected  to  follow 
him;  she  was  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  his  drift,  until  he 
offered  a  magnanimous  elucidation  in  these  words :  - 

"There  ain't  no  law  for  decent  folks.  If  we  wanter 
divorce,  we  've  gotter  do  some  mean  thing  to  'arn  it. 
Mebbe  if  I  take  to  drink  we  might  stand  a  chance. 
If  you  'd  ruther,  I  can  knock  you  down  — - 1  don't 
favor  that  way,  myself.  If  you  '11  jam  me  over  the 
head  with  the  family  Bible,  it  might  do ;  it 's  good  'n' 
heavy.  There  ain't  no  other  way  I  can  see,  onless  I 
steal  something  and  get  sent  to  prison  for  five  years. 
We  ain't  neither  of  us  loonies,  and  I  've  been  so  near 
sighted  I  hain't  deserted  you.  I  can,  if  you  say  so. 
'T  ain't  too  late.  But  it  takes  quite  a  while  —  three 
years.  If  you  was  to  elope  with  a  fellar,  that  would 

43 


COVERED   EMBERS 


help  us  out.  Can  you  think  of  anybody  you  'd  fancy  ?" 
As  Dinsmore  uttered  this  long  and  inscrutable  dis 
course,  his  wife  had  grown  pale,  and  paler;  her 
plump  elbows  shook. 

"He's  wanderin',"  she  thought.  "He's  taken  a 
a  spell  and  it 's  gone  to  his  head." 

"Let  me  get  you  a  dose  of  your  spring  tonic, 
Robert,"  she  purred,  soothing  him.  "An'  then  I  '11  fix 
you  up  a  nice  hot  foot-bath  'n'  mustard,  and  send  for 
the  doctor.  You  must  have  taken  cold,  or  maybe 
you  're  a  mite  bilious.  There,  Rob,  there !  You  come 
along  o'  me,  and  I  '11  take  care  of  you." 

It  was  so  long  since  she  had  called  him  Rob  that 
the  word  arrested  Dinsmore's  attention  and  quenched 
the  retort  burning  upon  his  tongue.  He  looked  at  his 
wife  steadily  and  with  a  certain  interest,  as  if  in  a  new 
subject,  or  a  new  phase  of  an  old  one. 

"You  don't  understand,  Anna.  You're  a  woman, 
and  I  had  n't  orter  expected  it.  I  ain't  out  o'  my  head ; 
I  've  only  been  to  the  city.  This  ain't  loonacy.  It 's 
law.  I  ain'ter  goin'ter  take  no  spring  tonic,"  he  added 
pugnaciously.  "Nor  I  ain'ter  goin'ter  go  to  bed.  I  'm 
goin'ter  light  the  settin'-room  fire  and  set  by  it.  I  'm 
cold.  It 's  so  cold  I  guess  I  '11  keep  it  agoin'  till  mornin'0 
Burnin',  did  you  say?  Good  and  ready?  Well! 
That 's  nice,  Anna.  You  'd  better  go  to  bed.  I  '11  set 
awhile  alone.  You  've  given  me  a  fust-rate  supper, 
and  I  'm  much  obleeged  to  you,  Anna.  But  there 's 

44 


COVERED   EMBERS 


times  a  man  has  to  be  alone  —  and  this  is  one  of  them 
times  —  -  We  may  as  well. get  used  to  it.  We  Ve  gotter 
set  alone  a  good  deal,  I  s'pose." 

The  wife  shriveled  away  into  herself  at  once.  With 
out  further  words  the  two  parted  for  the  night.  She 
washed  the  dishes  and  went  slowly  upstairs  to  her  own 
room,  which  her  husband  had  not  entered  for  longer 
than  either  of  them  cared  to  recall. 

Robert  Dinsmore  sat  by  the  hearth  and  fed  the  fire 
gloomily.  His  thoughts  flickered  as  the  blaze  did, 
under  the  big  birch  logs,  which  he  crossed  and  re- 
crossed,  and  built  up  and  built  again ;  but  his  feeling 
went  steadily  to  ashes  as  the  fire  went.  He  perceived 
that  two  respectable  people  who  had  married  ought 
to  be  able  to  live  together  in  comfort  and  in  what  is 
called  peace.  But  he  felt  that  in  his  own  case  some 
thing  fundamental  to  this  mysterious  achievement 
was  lacking;  he  supposed  it  was  what  is  known  as 
love,  but  he  was  not  quite  sure.  That  it  was  some 
thing  which  had  been,  and  was  not,  was  plain;  beyond, 
he  got  into  fog.  He  shook  his  head  as  he  crouched 
over  the  fading  fire.  His  wife  never  saw  the  look  that 
settled  over  his  large,  unfinished  face.  He  sat  brood 
ing  till  midnight,  as  an  unhappy  man  will,  bitter  and 
separate.  Then  he  covered  the  fire  carefully  with  its 
own  ashes,  hot  and  cold.  "  It 's  a  tarnation  late 
spring,"  he  said.  "  I  guess  I  '11  keep  it  up  overnight." 


45 


COVERED  EMBERS 


The  stenographer's  brows  wrinkled  perplexedly 
when  she  admitted  the  unworldly  couple.  A  com 
posite  feeling  of  disdain  and  respect  struggled  for  ex 
pression  in  the  face  of  this  sophisticated  young  woman 
as  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  in  her  new  spring  sack  (visibly 
unappreciated  by  the  office-girl,  though  conceded  to 
be  the  banner  of  fashion  in  China),  was  introduced 
into  the  inner  office.  A  peremptory  wave  of  the  girl's 
hand  relegated  the  husband  to  a  seat  in  the  waiting- 
room  without. 

"That  young  lady  with  the  tulle  rosette  behind  told 
me  to  come  in  here, "  began  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  with  her 
company  manner.  "She  said  you  wanted  to  see  me 
alone.  My  husband  is  right  out  there  in  call,"  she 
added,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  propriety. 

She  could  not  remember  when  she  had  been  shut 
up  in  a  room  with  a  strange  man.  Indeed,  she  had 
never  met  a  man  like  this  one.  His  delicate  courtesy, 
his  high-bred  features,  his  chivalrous  smile,  first  be 
wildered  and  then  charmed  her.  When  he  said,  "I 
thought,  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  we  had  better  talk  matters 
over  together,"  she  could  have  told  him  everything 
she  had  ever  thought  or  felt. 

The  instinct  for  the  confessional  which  is  so  strong 
in  every  woman  is  not  provided  for  by  the  polity  of 
the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  and  Anna  Dinsmore, 
who  was  in  her  own  way  a  reserved  wife,  had  never 
told  her  story  to  her  minister.  Herrick's  sincerity  and 

46 


COVERED   EMBERS 


sympathy,  qualities  necessary  to  a  successful  coun 
selor,  and  obvious  in  him,  drew  the  woman  on.  The 
misery  of  years  melted  from  her  lips.  In  half  an  hour 
he  had  a  life's  history,  and  the  heart  of  a  wretched 
wife  throbbed  in  his  hand. 

His  face  underwent  a  change  as  the  consultation 
progressed;  the  experienced  lines  about  his  mouth 
wavered,  and  his  melancholy  eyes  dwelt  upon  the 
client  kindly;  once  or  twice  they  grew  moist,  and  once 
his  finger  dashed  to  the  lashes. 

"And  the  child?"  he  asked  gently.  "I  under 
stood  you  to  say  that  there  was  a  child  ?" 

"One,  sir.  We  never  had  but  one.  That  was  a 
little  girl,  —  that  was  Deeny.  He  named  her  Diana, 
after  me.  He  used  to  call  me  Nan  in  those  days;  he 
don't  now.  But  we  called  her  Deeny.  She  called  her 
self  that  before  she  could  talk.  Deeny  died.  She  was 
three  years  old.  She  was  the  prettiest  little  girl,  Mr. 
Herrick,  you  ever  see.  —  Her  father  set  the  world 
and  all  by  her.  It 's  fourteen  years  come  Sunday  after 
next  since  Deeny  died." 

Herrick  arose  silently,  opened  the  door,  and  beck 
oned  the  husband  in.  The  two  sat  before  their  lawyer 
like  children  before  a  father,  with  downcast  eyes. 
The  man  was  the  first  to  assert  himself. 

"Well!"  he  began,  in  a  loud  voice.  "I  suppose 
she 's  been  pitching  into  me?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  lawyer,  sternly, 

47 


COVERED  EMBERS 


"your  wife  has  taken  her  full  share  of  the  blame  — 
more  than  her  share,  perhaps." 

"I  'm  obleeged  to  ye,  Anna,"  observed  the  husband, 
after  some  thought.  "I  wisht  I  'd  done  as  much  by 
you.  I'm  afraid  I  didn't.  I  told  him  you  bob- 
whizzled. " 

"Now,  if  you  will  be  influenced  by  me,"  began  the 
lawyer,  in  his  paternal  tone;  it  was  that  of  a  man  who 
has  listened  to  the  uneven  tempo  of  so  many  hundred 
disordered  human  hearts  that  he  might  have  been 
pardoned  for  slighting  the  exigency  of  these  plain 
people;  instead,  he  made  it  his  own,  as  a  few  men 
might  who  hold  and  honor  the  name  of  counselor,  - 
"if  you  will  be  guided  by  me,  you  will  go  home  and 
begin  all  over  again  —  make  the  best  of  each  other, 
and  of  life,  in  short.  You  have  no  case  at  all.  You 
cannot  obtain  a  divorce  in  this  State.  If  you  feel  that 
you  must  separate,  you  can  do  that,  of  course.  I  can 
arrange  the  details,  if  you  wish. " 

"That  would  do,"  said  Dinsmore,  quickly.  "It's 
more  respectable,  and  it  ain't  so  ondooable  either,  is 
it?" 

"  I  guess  we  'd  like  that,"  added  the  wife,  but  slowly, 
and  with  averted  eyes. 

Those  of  the  lawyer  saddened  a  little;  he  had  the 
look  of  a  man  who  has  lost  his  case.  But  he  said :  — 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  advise.  If  I  were  in  your 
place,  I  should  try  again.  A  hot  temper  and  an 

48 


COVERED   EMBERS 


arbitrary  will  are  not  a  fatal  combination.  I  assure 
you  that  it 's  a  pretty  common  one.  It 's  worth  the 
fight  to  get  the  better  of  it,  —  or  so  it  strikes  me. " 

"We've  fit  — and  fit,"  replied  the  man.  "We're 
beat  out." 

"Yes, "  assented  the  woman.   "We  're  tired  of  it. " 

"Very  well,"  returned  Herrick,  curtly.  "Come  a 
week  from  Monday,  and  I  '11  go  over  the  details  with 
you.  I  am  greatly  pressed  for  time  just  now.  Mrs. 
Dinsmore,  if  you  please,  I  will  speak  with  your 
husband  a  moment  alone." 

When  the  two  were  left  together,  the  counselor's 
manner  abruptly  changed.  John  Herrick's  face  had 
taken  on  a  certain  transparency,  making  him  look 
fairer  and  finer  than  most  men;  he  wheeled  in  his 
office-chair  before  he  began  to  speak.  His  words  were 
carefully  chosen  and  few  in  number.  These  were 
they:- 

"Dinsmore,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  friend  of 
mine  —  a  man  I  knew  well.  He  was  not  happy  with 
his  wife,  and  they  parted.  They  had  one  child  —  it 
was  a  little  girl;  it  died.  After  that  they  drifted  apart, 
the  way  people  do,  —  and  then  they  drove  apart. 
Matters  got  worse  —  you  know  how  it  is.  They  had 
begun  by  loving  each  other  —  very  much  —  very 
truly.  When  they  found  that  they  were  losing  this  - 
precious  thing  —  this  feeling  that  brings  men  and 
women  together  —  and  leads  them  to  meet  life 

49 


COVERED   EMBERS 


patiently  and  tenderly  for  one  another's  sake, —  they 
did  not  try  to  hold  it ;  they  let  it  go,  and  so  —  I  think 
I  told  you,  did  n't  I  ?  —  they  parted.  She  went  —  in 
fact,  they  put  the  seas  between  them.  I  think  the 
man  was  the  more  to  blame  —  I  think  we  are  apt  to 
be  to  blame.  It  is  n't  a  very  easy  thing  to  be  a  woman, 
Dinsmore.  Let  us  put  ourselves  in  their  places. 
Come!  They  need  to  be  loved  manfully,  nothing 
cowardly  about  it,  —  not  to  whine  over  the  disap 
pointments  of  marriage.  These  are  altogether  mutual. 

"A  woman  has  got  to  be  cherished,  Dinsmore,  — 
yes,  even  if  she  is  quick-tempered.  A  man  can  do 
that,  though  he  has  outlived  his  honeymoon.  This 
man  that  I  tell  you  of  began  to  think  so  after  a  while; 
after  he  had  lived  alone  till  the  ferment  of  things,  — 
that  is,  perhaps  I  do  not  make  it  plain,  —  till  his  first 
irritation  and  soreness  had  healed  and  calmed.  One 
day  he  said  to  himself:  'I  will  take  the  next  steamer. 
I  '11  go  to  her  and  tell  her  how  I  feel.  We  will  try  again. 
We  will  begin  all  over. '  That  night,  Dinsmore,  that 
same  night,  he  had  a  message  from  her  by  cable  — 
Do  you  see  ?  —  that  very  evening.  She  said,  '  Come 
at  once. '  -  When  he  got  there,  she  was  —  He  was 
too  late.  She  was  dead.  —  He  never  had  his  chance 
to  try  again.  — You  have.  Good -morning,  sir." 

Herrick  wheeled  and  dismissed  the  client,  who 
went  from  the  office  with  hanging  head  and  walking 
on  tiptoe. 


COVERED  EMBERS 


Robert  Dinsmore  was  not  a  quick-witted  man,  as  we 
measure  men  and  minds,  but  he  had  it  in  him  to  sur 
mise,  if  he  did  not  perceive,  that  the  counselor  had 
shared  with  a  stranger,  the  sacred  tragedy  of  his  own 
history;  and  that  he  had  done  this  delicate,  self- 
obliterating  thing  not  to  save  a  case,  but  to  save  a 
client's  happiness  and  a  human  home. 

When  Dinsmore  had  gone,  John  Herrick  turned  the 
key  in  the  door.  The  stenographer  knocked  in  vain, 
and  whisked  away,  pouting.  Herrick  did  not  get  to 
work,  but  sat  for  some  time  looking  at  the  dead  stone 
wall,  which  constituted  his  foreground  and  his  per 
spective. 

The  late  spring  lagged.  The  peonies  and  dahlias 
in  front  of  Robert  Dinsmore's  house  held  up  green 
finger-tips,  as  if  they  were  trying  the  weather,  and 
found  it  too  cold  to  venture  into,  so  came  no  farther. 
For  several  evenings  the  fire  burned  late  on  the  sitting- 
room  hearth,  and  the  man  sat  before  it,  silent  and 
apart,  bitter  and  determined.  As  determined,  but 
sadder  and  more  gentle,  the  wife  wept  on  her  pillow, 
listening  for  his  heavy  footfall  turning  to  his  down 
stairs  room.  If  the  night  were  cold,  she  could  hear 
the  scrapings  of  the  shovel  as  he  covered  the  fire  to 
hold  it  over  till  morning.  Like  many  big  men,  he 
had  small  weaknesses  and  self-indulgences;  fancied 
a  warm  place  to  dress  in  if  it  were  chilly,  and  crept 


COVERED  EMBERS 


there  with  his  clothes,  half  guiltily,  while  his  wife 
was  building  the  kitchen  fire  and  getting  breakfast. 

The  lawyer  had  allowed  the  couple  ten  days  before 
the  fateful  and  final  interview  which  should  indicate 
the  terms  of  their  separation  and  put  its  details  into 
execution.  If  it  occurred  to  them  to  wonder  why,  in 
reply  to  the  incontrovertible  statement  on  Mrs.  Dins- 
more's  part  that  Monday  was  washing-day,  Mr. 
Herrick  had  nevertheless  insisted  on  that  moist  date, 
they  had  not  protested,  and  obediently  pursued  their 
preparations  for  the  step  which  they  now  curiously  felt 
as  if  they  were  legally  obliged  to  take. 

It  was  to  their  simple  minds  as  if  their  fate  were  in 
the  hands  of  a  sheriff.  In  a  sense  it  was.  The  dark 
sheriff  Disillusion  that  arrests  fugitive  married  love, 
and  does  not  easily  let  go,  had  laid  a  heavy  grasp  upon 
these  two.  Yet  the  mechanic  perplexed  the  lawyer 
by  a  certain  fine  magnanimity  which  would  have 
embellished  the  soul  of  what  is  called  a  gentle 
man:  — 

"Allowance?  All  there  is,  if  you  say  so.  I  don't 
propose  to  cut  Anna  short.  I  'm  in  comfortable  cir 
cumstances  and  have  laid  up  consider'ble.  I  don't 
want  more  Jn  enough  to  pay  the  laundryman  and  find 
a  little  to  eat  somewheres.  I  can  sleep  in  the  shop. 
She  must  have  the  house,  it  stands  to  natur'.  No  man 
could  turn  a  woman  outer  doors.  I  want  to  per  vide 
handsomely  for  Anna." 

52 


COVERED   EMBERS 


"  Mr.  Dinsmore  is  very  generous  to  me. "  His  wife, 
to  her  neighbors  and  relatives,  said  this  proudly. 

The  domestic  misfortunes  of  the  two  were  now  the 
scandal  of  China,  and  she  reported  to  her  husband 
the  efforts  of  the  village  to  preserve  the  indivisibility 
of  their  home.  Public  opinion  was  against  them ;  their 
course  was  felt  to  be  a  distinct  reflection  upon  the 
character  of  the  community  and  the  standing  of  the 
Baptist  and  Methodist  churches. 

The  unhappy  husband  and  wife  were  made  to  feel 
themselves  the  object  of  a  general  censure  so  un 
expected  and  so  severe  that  they  combined  instinctively, 
like  the  happiest  of  married  people,  to  resent  it. 

They  grew,  in  fact,  quite  friendly  over  their  com 
mon  misfortune,  and  discussed  it  daily  between  gusts 
of  a  mutual  irritation. 

"  Your  minister  called  here  to-day.  He  preached  at 
me  for  an  hour.  I  told  him  I  preferred  to  be  disci 
plined  by  my  own  denomination.  He  said  wives  orter 
submit  themselves  to  their  own  Baptist  husbands." 

"  Your  minister  came  to  my  shop  this  afternoon. 
He  pitched  into  me  for  quite  a  spell.  He  said  hus 
bands  oughter  love  their  wives,  as  Christ  loved  the 
Methodist  Church." 

It  would  not  have  been  easy  for  Robert  and  Diana 
Dinsmore  to  say  when  they  had  passed  so  much  time 
in  each  other's  society  as  since  they  had  agreed  to 
forswear  it  forever. 

53 


COVERED   EMBERS 


All  this  was  by  day.  With  evening  their  spirits  fell, 
and  they  crept  apart.  The  wife  cried  a  good  deal ;  but 
never  in  his  presence.  She  was  mysteriously  and  re 
morselessly  busy  —  over  what,  he  could  not  have  told, 
she  seemed  to  be  working  about  the  house  all  day, 
giving  it  the  religious  touch  of  something  more  sacred 
than  spring-cleaning;  washing  his  bedspreads,  iron 
ing  his  shirts,  doing  up  curtains  in  his  room,  mending 
flannels,  disinterring  camphorated  mummies  of  sum 
mer  clothes  —  all  his,  all  for  him.  His  smouldering 
eyes  saw  everything,  but  he  asked  no  questions.  With 
the  eagerness  of  a  bride,  the  skill  of  a  happy  and 
experienced  housewife,  and  the  sadness  of  a  widow, 
the  woman  worked  on  doggedly.  He  thought  what  a 
neat,  sweet  housekeeper  she  had  always  been  — 
snapping,  sometimes,  when  he  tracked  in  mud,  but 
always  ready  to  mop  it  up  after  him  with  a  laugh. 
He  thought  —  he  began  to  think  —  how  many  com 
fortable  hours  he  had  owed  to  her  for  how  many 
years.  He  hated  to  see  her  tiring  herself  like  this  — 
at  the  last. 

"What  ails  you,  Anna?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Don't  ye  darst  find  fault  with  me  —  now!"  she 
cried,  quavering.  She  took  up  the  big  stocking  she 
was  mending  and  went  into  another  room. 

Dinsmore  stared  after  her.  His  large  face  wrinkled 
uncomfortably.  She  could  see  him  from  where  she 
sat,  though  she  seemed  not  to.  She  thought :  — 

54 


COVERED   EMBERS 


"He  was  a  handsome  fellow  —  those  first  years. 
He 's  lost  consider'ble  looks  the  last  two  weeks.  I  hope 
he  '11  keep  his  health,  and  not  get  to  complainin'. 
I  don't  know  who  to  mercy  '11  look  after  him  if  he 
should  have  any  of  his  spells.  His  aunt  Sophia 
could  n't  no  more  'n  a  "  —  she  paused  for  an  adequate 
simile  -  -  "no  more  'n  a  camphorated  woodchuck," 
added  the  New  England  wife. 

The  spring  relented  slowly  and  began  to  burgeon. 
The  dahlias  and  peonies  thrust  up  their  arms  beside 
the  front  walk.  In  the  bed  under  the  south  window  - 
that  had  been  the  little  girl's  window  —  an  old-fash 
ioned  flower  called  the  star-of -Bethlehem  budded  and 
blossomed;  it  was  a  delicate  flower,  lily-shaped,  or 
star-shaped,  with  a  gray  shade  and  a  white  light. 

The  fire  in  the  sitting-room  was  not  burning  now, 
but  Dinsmore  kept  it  carefully  laid,  and  sat  by  its 
cold  hearth  doloK>usly.  It  had  come  to  be  Saturday 
night  —  the  last  that  they  were  to  spend  together. 
Dinsmore  had  been  quiet  and  dull ;  but  Anna  worked 
all  day.  She  did  not  stop  sewing  until  nine  o'clock; 
then  she  put  away  her  thimble,  folded  a  big  pink  and 
blue  outing-shirt  neatly,  and  came  and  sat  down  be 
side  her  husband.  The  unlighted  fire  lay  between 
them. 

"I  believe  I  've  thought  of  everything, "  she  began, 
in  a  tone  as  if  she  had  been  entertaining  a  caller  with 
whom  she  was  on  rather  distant  terms.  "  Your  winter 

55 


COVERED   EMBERS 


ones  are  all  done  up  in  camphor,  —  summer  ones  in 
the  lowest  drawer  of  your  bureau.  I  don't  think 
you  '11  find  a  button  off  of  anything.  I  hain't  in 
tended  you  should.  All  yer  stockings  are  mended 
up  'n'  turned  at  the  heel.  Your  furs  are  in  the  big 
chest  in  the  attic,  —  here 's  the  key.  I  've  had  'em 
all  aired  'n'  sunned  'n'  brushed,  an'  done  up  in  cam 
phor  'n'  cedar-oil,  I  know  you  hate  moth-balls.  Don't 
you  never  let  anybody  -  '  She  broke  off. 

"  The  house  is  clean  's  clean  from  top  to  toe,  Rob 
ert.  I  've  had  everything  out  and  everything  in.  It 
fairly  smells  of  soap  'n'  water  'n'  sunshine.  You  '11 
find  your  spring  tonic  in  the  medicine  cupboard.  I 
do  hope  you  will  —  will  —  you  will  take  good  care 
of  yourself,  an'  not  get  any  of  your  spells.  I  should 
kinder  hate  to  have  you  get  sick  and  me  —  I  hope 
you  '11  change  your  feet  when  you  get  'em  wet,  when 
I  -  Then,  come  sunstroke  weather,  remember  how 
I  always  put  a  wet  sponge  in  the  crown  of  your  straw 
hat,  won't  you?  You'll  find  it  over  the  kitchen 
dresser.  I  've  baked  a  dozen  pies  —  all  sorts.  I  '11 
roast  a  couple  of  fowl  and  leave  doughnuts  —  and 
those  long  cookies  with  holes  in  that  you  like.  You 
can  get  along  for  quite  a  spell,  till  that  camphorated 
wood  —  I  mean,  your  aunt  Sophia  comes.  I  made  up 
my  mind  after  we  come  from  that  lawyer  o'  Monday 
night,  to  stop  along  o'  Mary  Lizzie. " 

"  What  ?  "  shouted  the  husband. 

56 


COVERED   EMBERS 


The  wife  winced  —  as  she  had  done,  how  often!  — 
at  his  rising  voice.  But  she  answered  steadily:  "I  've 
made  up  my  mind.  I  ain'ter  goin'ter  turn  you  outer 
your  own  home.  I  'm  goin'ter  stop  along  of  Mary 
Lizzie.  I  could  n't  seem,  anyways,  to  turn  you  out, 
Robert.  It  don't  seem  fair.  I  ain'ter  goin'ter  do  it. 
I  ain'ter  goin'ter  stop  here.  I  've  fixed  everything 
for  you,  Robert,  pretty 's  I  know  how,  and  come  o' 
Monday,  I  guess  I  won't  come  back.  Seems  to  me 
it  would  be  easiest,  somehow.  I  -  No,  Robert,  no! 
I  airtt  cryin',  nor  I  ain'ter  goin'ter  cry.  You  lemme 
be,  that 's  all.  Hain't  you  always  been  at  me  all 
these  years  to  let  you  be,  to  let  you  have  your  way? 
Now,  I  'm  goin'ter  have  mine  —  for  once.  I  've  made 
up  my  mind.  I  know  you  've  got  one  of  your  own, 
but  it  ain't  big  enough  to  change  mine  this  time. 
I  ain'ter  goin'ter  turn  you  out,  and  that  I  'm  set  on. 
I  could  n't  stand  it,  Robert,  no  way  in  this  world,  to 
see  you  campin'  in  that  shop.  A  man  is  such  a  help 
less  creetur,  a  man  is  such  a  —  such  a  tomfool  without 
a  house  and  a  woman  in  it!  No,  I  ain'ter  cryin', 
either,  but  if  you  darst  touch  me,  Robert,  I  shall  —  I 
shall  begin  to  - 

He  did  not  dare  to  touch  her.  He  was  a  dull  man, 
as  we  have  said.  Before  his  wet  and  winking  eyes, 
before  his  empty  arms,  she  whirled  and  fled.  He 
heard  her  sob  her  way  upstairs,  and  heard  her  lock 
her  door. 

57 


COVERED   EMBERS 


She  was  quite  self-possessed  the  next  morning; 
more  so  than  the  man.  Dinsmore  flung  himself  about 
the  house  uneasily,  and  took  an  after -breakfast  pipe 
-  a  secular  amusement  which  he  did  not  allow  him 
self  on  Sunday.  When  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  in 
the  hearth  the  fire  caught  and  blazed  robustly;  he 
watched  it  with  sombre  eyes  till  it  had  fallen  quite 
away. 

"  It 's  the  last  one, "  he  thought.  He  gave  the  fender 
a  kick  as  he  shoved  it  into  place. 

They  went  to  church  as  usual,  and  reflected  what 
credit  they  could,  and  such  discredit  as  they  must, 
upon  their  separate  and  distinct  denominations;  he 
drove  her  both  ways,  and  helped  her  in  and  out  of  the 
buggy.  She  got  up  an  excellent  Sunday  dinner  for 
him,  one  of  her  best,  and  it  must  be  recorded  that  he 
did  generous  justice  to  it,  and  that  this  gratified  her 
very  much.  In  the  afternoon  she  began  to  grow  a 
little  gray  about  the  mouth,  and  he  noticed  that  her 
hand  fumbled  with  her  apron  when  she  came  at  last 
and  stood  behind  him.  He  was  laying  the  fire  on  the 
cold  hearth. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  don't  object,  do  you?  I 
thought  I  'd  leave  it  as  it  had  orter  be.  It  won't  —  we 
sha'n't  —  /  sha'n't  set  by  it  any  more,  I  s'pose.  If 
you  think  you  're  goin'  to  Mary  Lizzie's,  you  never 
was  more  mistaken  in  your  life,  Diana  Dinsmore. 
You  can't  leave  this  here  house.  It 's  your  house. 

58 


COVERED   EMBERS 


Mr.  Herrick's  got  the  deeds  made  out.  Come  to 
morrow  he  '11  pass  'em,  and  you  gotter  stay. " 

"I  ain'ter  goin'ter,"  replied  the  wife,  with  the  in 
exorable  obstinacy  of  gentleness.  "I  ain'ter  goin'ter 
turn  you  out.  It  ain't  gospel." 

"Well,  it 's  law,"  persisted  Dinsmore.  "Mr.  Her 
ri  ck  '11  make  you.  You  '11  see. " 

"Is  n't  it  kinder  late  to  be  fightin'  as  to  which  shall 
treat  the  other  prettiest?"  asked  Mrs.  Dinsmore, 
slowly. 

"By  gum!"  answered  Dinsmore,  "I  never  thought 
of  that." 

"Robert,"  began  the  woman,  laying  her  hand 
timidly  on  his  arm,  "have  you  forgotten  - 

"  I  hain't  forgotten  a  blessed  thing, "  interrupted  the 
husband,  shortly. 

"  It 's  fourteen  years  —  you  know  —  since  - 

"Lord,  don't  I  know?"  groaned  Dinsmore.  "I  've 
thought  about  it  every  night  I  've  set  here  this  two 
weeks  past." 

"Would  you  mind  comin'  along  o'  me  —  this  last 
time  —  same  's  we  've  done  for  fourteen  years  —  to 
—  to  visit  with  her,  Robert  ?  The  star-of -Bethlehem 
is  up.  It 's  always  up  —  in  time  for  Deeny. " 

"It  gnaws  at  me  so,  Anna!"  The  man  put  his 
hand  to  his  heart  as  if  he  were  undergoing  a  physical 
pang.  "I  always  feel  it  —  here,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  know  but  you'd  like  to  go  and  say 

59 


COVERED   EMBERS 


good-by  to  Deeny  —  with  me, "  urged  the  woman, 
drooping;  "but  never  mind!" 

"Oh,  I  '11  go!"  cried  Dinsmore;  "of  course  I  '11  go." 

Silently  the  two  went  out  of  the  house,  and  silently 
took  the  road  together.  They  walked  with  bent 
heads.  Their  feet  seemed  to  carry  them  without 
direction  of  their  wills  to  the  greening,  budding 
village  churchyard.  Anna  held  the  star-of -Bethle 
hem  in  her  hand.  Now  and  then  she  buried  her  face 
in  the  silver-gray,  lilylike,  starlike  flowers.  Once  he 
thought  she  kissed  them,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  see 
or  know  it.  He  seemed  to  see  nothing,  he  seemed  to 
know  nothing,  and  he  had  a  stolid  look  when  they 
came  to  the  little  girl's  grave.  One  might  have 
thought  that  he  did  not  care.  The  bit  of  marble 
flickered  before  his  eyes  in  the  cool  May  sunlight,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  leaf,  or  some  frail  living  thing. 

What  a  little  grave  it  was !  It  had  never  seemed  so 
short  before. 

"The  letters  need  polishin'  up,"  he  said;  he 
traced  them  out  with  his  stained  forefinger. 

DEENY 


THREE   YEARS   OLD 
WHEN   SHE   DIED 


"She  would  have  been  seventeen,  would  n't  she? 
I  had  n't  thought  of  that. " 

"Shall  we  divide  'em  up — -same's  we  always 
have?"  asked  Anna,  hesitating.  She  was  afraid  of 

60 


COVERED   EMBERS 


him  even  then,  and  even  there.  It  was  an  old  habit 
and  an  iron  one.  She  glanced  at  him  deprecat- 
ingly. 

"I  don't  know  's  I  care  if  we  do,"  he  answered. 
"I  s'pose  Deeny  'd  like  that." 

Anna  halved  the  flowers  in  silence.  He  was  con 
scious  of  wondering  why  she  did  not  cry.  He  laid  the 
star-of-Bethlehem  on  Deeny's  grave  with  his  huge 
fingers;  they  shook,  and  one  of  the  silver-gray  bells 
fell.  Anna  picked  it  up  and  kissed  it  before  she 
added  to  it  her  handful.  He  watched  her  with 
wretched  eyes;  hers  leaped,  and  it  was  for  a  moment 
as  if  they  ran  to  him. 

"There  's  Dickson!"  he  said  suddenly,  "and  your 
minister's  wife.  And  Mary  'Lizzie. " 

The  last  place  in  China  where  grief  could  shelter 
itself  was  in  the  spot  where  it  grieved  the  sorest ;  and 
on  the  day  when  it  had  most  leisure  to  weep  it  had 
least  opportunity.  There  was  no  seclusion  in  the 
village  churchyard  on  Sunday  afternoon.  The  child 
less  parents  fled  the  place  before  their  curious  towns 
folk,  and,  climbing  the  old  stone-wall  among  the 
blackberry- vines,  went  home  silently  by  another 
way. 

The  mother  did  not  look  back,  but  the  father  did 
so  once;  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  bit  of  marble  turned 
a  little,  like  something  that  watched  them.  But  mar 
ble  does  not  move,  and  Deeny  could  not.  She  lay 

61 


COVERED   EMBERS 


deep  among  the  roots  of  spring,  with  the  star-of- 
Bethlehem  above  her. 

The  two  came  to  their  home  as  mutely  as  they  had 
gone  from  it,  and  made  no  attempt  to  reassume  the 
shield  of  words.  It  was  as  if  it  had  suddenly  proved 
to  be  made  of  some  false  substance  —  gauze  or 
paper  —  and  hung  ragged  in  their  hands.  Now  they 
flung  the  flimsy  thing  away. 

Anna  laid  the  table  for  their  light  Sunday-night 
supper,  and  both  sat  down,  but  neither  ate.  Pretty 
soon  she  came  back  and  cleared  away  the  dishes. 
Dinsmore  lighted  his  pipe,  and  went  and  sat  by  the 
fireless  hearth.  He  heard  her  stirring  about  with  her 
soft,  housewifely  step;  she  had  a  light  step  for  so 
heavy  a  woman.  Anna  was  not  awkward;  she  had 
been  a  graceful  girl,  and  pretty  —  he  remembered 
how  pretty  she  used  to  be ;  he  did  not  know  when  he 
had  thought  of  it  before.  He  had  been  very  much  in 
love  with  her;  so  had  most  of  the  young  men  in  China; 
but  she  had  denied  them  all  to  marry  him.  Anna  had 
always  kept  something  of  the  look  and  manner  of  a 
woman  who  has  been  ardently  and  frequently  sought 
in  youth,  and  when  marriage  ceased  to  sustain  the 
valuation  at  which  she  had  been  taught  to  rate  her 
self,  she  was  as  perplexed  as  she  was  wretched.  Dins- 
more  pulled  at  his  pipe  nervously. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "she  was  a  good-looking  girl. 

62 


COVERED   EMBERS 


And  Anna  's  a  handy  housekeeper.  If  it  had  n't  'a' 
ben  for  bob-whizzlin'  -  By  gum!"  he  said  aloud, 
"if  she  ain'ter  gone  upstairs  without  comin'  to  set 
along  of  me  —  this  last  night! " 

For  Anna  had  crept  upstairs  to  her  own  room,  and 
he  heard  her  lock  her  door.  He  put  his  pipe  away; 
suddenly  there  was  no  pleasure  in  it  any  more.  He 
stretched  his  legs  out  on  the  cold  hearth  and,  folding 
his  hands,  began  to  twirl  his  big  thumbs  perplexedly; 
his  head  fell  to  his  breast.  He  must  have  sat  there  for 
some  time.  Presently  he  said :  — 

u  Deeny —  she  would  ha'  stayed  along  of  me.  It 
would  ha'  ben  somebody.  — No,"  he  added,  on  re 
flection.  "Women  hang  together.  She  would  ha' 
stood  by  her  mother  —  I'd  ruther  she  would,  too. 
If  there  'd  ever  ben  a  boy,  —  but  there  warn't.  No. 
There  warn't  no  boy.  And  Deeny  's  dead." 

He  repeated  the  word  aloud,  two  or  three  times :  — 

"Deeny!  Deeny!" 

With  a  cry  the  man  sprang  to  his  startled  feet.  He 
did  not  believe  in  ghosts;  no  good  Baptist  did;  but 
then  and  there  he  was  sure  that  one  had  got  into  the 
house.  It  was  well  fitted  up  against  burglars,  but 
there  were  no  ghost -locks  on  the  doors  and  windows, 
as  there  are  no  ghost-locks  on  a  father's  or  a  mother's 
heart. 

It  was  his  wife  who  had  frightened  him  so  —  as  he 
started  to  tell  her,  but  he  thought  better  of  it.  Her 


COVERED   EMBERS 


feet  were  bare,  like  any  spirit's,  and  her  hand  as  cold 
as  Deeny's;  she  had  come  without  sound  and  she 
stood  without  speech;  though  the  night  was  warm, 
she  had  covered  her  night-dress  carefully  with  her 
blue  flannel  wrapper,  as  if  he  had  been  some  neighbor 
or  acquaintance  hurriedly  met  in  an  emergency. 

"Lord!"  he  said,  "Lord  o'  mercy!  You  scared  the 
sense  outer  me." 

"Robert,"  she  began  at  once,  "I  came  to  —  I 
thought  I  'd  come — I  wanted  to  sit  with  you  this  last 
time  —  if  you  don't  mind  me.  Do  you,  Robert  ?" 

She  looked  about  timidly.   ' '  There  ain't  any  chair. ' ' 

"Would  you  care,"  asked  Dinsmore,  humbly,  "if 
you  should  set  on  the  arm  of  mine  ?  Seein'  it 's  the 
last  time." 

He  sank  back  into  the  big  cushioned  chair  that  he 
had  been  occupying.  After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
seated  herself  upon  its  arm.  She  did  not  look  at  him, 
but  began  to  talk  at  once :  he  saw  that  she  had  one  of 
those  flowers  thrust  in  the  bosom  of  her  blue  flannel 
gown. 

"I  brought  it  down  for  you,"  she  said  hurriedly, 
"  seein'  it 's  Deeny's.  I  picked  it  up  off  the  grave  after 
I  'd  laid  it  there.  I  thought  you  'd  like  to  keep  it  — 
even  if  you  took  it  from  —  me.  Put  it  in  your  Bible, 
will  you,  Rob  ?  Put  it  on  that  Jairus  chapter  we  read 
together  that  night  we  buried  her;  about  his  little  girl 
who  was  not  dead,  but  sleepeth  —  don't  you  remem- 

64 


COVERED   EMBERS 


her?  See,  Rob,  what  a  pretty  flower  it  is!  What  a 
Deeny  flower!  When  it  is  a  bud,  it  is  a  lily.  When  it 
blossoms,  it  is  a  star.  I  've  been  thinkin'  it  's  that  way 
with  Deeny.  When  she  died  she  was  just  a  baby,  Rob, 
no  more  'n  a  lily-bud  —  a  little  white  thing.  Then  we 
could  hold  her  —  and  cuddle  her.  Now  she  's  blos 
somed,  she  is  a  star,  and  we  can't. 

"Oh,  she  was  such  a  pretty  baby,  Rob!  She  was 
such  a  dear  little  girl !  -  -  I  —  I  set  so  much  by  her  - 
Ah  me !  Ah  me !  —  O  Robbie,  don't  blame  me,  will 
you  —  not  now  ?  Don't  be  hard  on  me  —  if  I  set  and 
cry  a  little  —  about  —  about  Deeny  —  this  last  time 
I  '11  get  a  chance.  Nobody  else  cares  about  Deeny  but 
you  'n'  me.  Everybody  else  has  forgotten  Deeny. 
She's  nothin'  but  a  handful  o'  dust  in  the  grave 
yard  to  other  folks  —  just  a  little  dead  baby  four 
teen  years  ago.  -  -  It 's  only  fathers  and  mothers  that 
love  dead  children  so  long 's  that.  Why,  Robbie, 
think !  She 's  seventeen  years  old  to-day !  She 's  singin' 
round  heaven,  a  grown-up  girl,  same  's  she  would  ha' 
ben  singin'  round  this  house  along  of  you  and  me." 

Dinsmore's  large  face  worked  pitifully;  a  man 
should  not  cry  —  like  a  woman  —  but  the  tears  came 
storming  down. 

"Now,  Anna!  Now,  Anna!"  he  repeated,  help 
lessly. 

He  thought  of  Deeny  as  a  seventeen-year-old  ghost 
with  a  harp  and  wings.  But  her  mother  thought  of  her 

65 


COVERED   EMBERS 


as  an  angel  in  a  long  skirt,  with  a  lace-stock  and 
ribbons. 

"  She  was  a  dear  little  thing ! "  reiterated  the  woman, 
who  was  sobbing  now  without  restraint. 

"So  she  was,  Anna,  so  she  was!"  the  father 
groaned. 

"And  she  set  so  much  by  you,  Robbie,  —  climbin' 
onto  your  knees  to  pull  your  whiskers,  and  kissin'  of 
you  - 

"So  she  did,  Nan,  so  she  did!" 

"And  singin'  of  a  morning  to  wake  us  up  —  and 
sayin'  her  little  prayers  of  an  evening:  'Now  I  lay  me' 
—  so  gentle  and  so  —  so  Deeny. " 

"It  gnaws  me  —  here,"  gasped  the  man;  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  changed  color.  But  the 
woman,  herself  stupid  with  misery,  went,  unobserv- 
ing,  on:  — 

"Rob  -  -  Listen  to  me;  I  've  been  thinkin'  — we 
can  divide  everything  else  —  houses  'n'  lands  'n' 
money  'n'  all  those  things  that  ain't  of  no  account  — 
Mr.  Herrick  can  fix  'em  all  up,  and  the  law  can  deal 
with  them.  But,  Rob,  we  can't  divide  Deeny  —  no 
way  in  the  world." 

"That's  a  fact,  we  can't,"  panted  Dinsmore, 
faintly.  "Who  ever  said  we  wanted  to  ? " 

"The  law  can't  part  off  Deeny,  Rob,  between  — 
you  and  —  me.  It  was  love  made  Deeny,  and  law 
can't  unmake  her.  Love  and  law  can  fight  for  ever  'n' 

66 


COVERED   EMBERS 


ever,  Rob,  but  there 's  Deeny.  Robert  ? — Say,  Robert  ? 
Did  you  hear  me?  —  Robert!" 

But  Robert  Dinsmore  did  not  answer  Diana  his 
wife.  His  head  against  the  tall  easy-chair  suddenly 
fell  to  one  side.  His  big  body  sloped  and  toppled,  and 
his  wife  caught  him  as  he  dropped. 

"He 's  got  one  of  his  spells, "  thought  Anna.  "I  Ve 
killed  him  —  this  last  night. " 

Then  she  fell  upon  him  with  the  hunger  of  her 
starved  heart.  She  kissed  him  and  kissed  him,  she 
chafed  and  stimulated,  she  wept  and  called,  she 
warmed  him  and  held  him,  and  yearned  over  him, 
and  prayed  over  him,  and  kissed  him  again. 

"Oh,  my  man!"  she  cried,  "my  man,  my  man!" 

When  Dinsmore  came  to  himself  he  muttered  a 
little,  and  said  queer  things :  - 

"I  am  not  dead,  but  sleepeth.  —  I've  lost  my 
chance  to  try  again.  —  Good -morning,  sir. " 

"It's  a  stroke,"  thought  Anna.  " He '11  miss  his 
mind  same  as  Peeler,  with  the  shakin'  palsy." 

But  it  was  not  a  stroke,  and  the  painter  did  not  miss 
his  mind.  He  found  it,  presently,  all  he  ever  had,  and 
perhaps  a  little  more.  And  when  he  found  it,  he  per 
ceived  a  marvel. 

On  the  cold  hearth  the  fire  leaped  and  began  to 
burn  joyously.  From  ashes  below  ashes  some  hidden 
spark,  some  covered  coal,  had  caught,  and  in  a 

67 


COVERED  EMBERS 


moment  the  cold  room  went  warm,  and  the  gray 
night  turned  a  royal  color. 

Did  wonders,  like  troubles,  come  together?  For 
now  the  man  was  aware  that  an  unbelievable  thing 
had  happened,  and  this  was  the  greatest  wonder  in 
the  world.  Love  had  happened.  His  head  was  on  a 
woman's  breast.  He  felt  her  arms,  her  tears,  her  lips. 

The  miracle  of  married  life  had  happened.  Long- 
forgotten  tenderness,  smothered  and  silent,  had 
leaped  from  the  embers  of  cold  years ;  it  was  not  dead, 
but  smouldered;  for  love  is  not  a  circumstance;  it  is 
not  a  state;  it  is  a  living  soul. 

"That  you,  Nan?"  he  asked  feebly.  "I  must 
have  had  a  spell." 

The  two  sat  in  the  shining,  clasped  and  still.  She 
did  not  cry  any  more.  She  feared  to  agitate  him, 
and  was  very  quiet.  She  put  her  hand  to  his  beard 
and  stroked  his  cheek.  Her  wrapper  fell  away  from 
her  neck,  but  she  did  not  notice  that  her  throat  was 
bare,  until  he  turned  his  face  and  kissed  it.  Deeny's 
flower  —  lilylike,  starlike,  childlike  —  had  fallen  from 
the  warm  blue  gown,  and  lay  upon  her  mother's 
bosom  beneath  his  lips. 

"Nan,"  said  Robert  Dinsmore,  "Nan,  you  may 
bob-whizzle  all  you  want  to." 

"But  I  don't  want  to,  Rob." 

"And, Nan,  I  guess  I  've  ordered  you  'round  some." 

"  I  'd  rather  you  would !"  cried  the  wife.  "  Should  n't 

68 


COVERED  EMBERS 


know  you  if  you  did  n't.  What  '11  Mr.  Herrick  say?" 
she  added,  in  a  frightened  voice.  It  occurred  to  her 
at  that  moment  that  even  now  the  statutes  would 
require  her  to  live  alone  in  the  house,  while  Robert 
camped  in  the  shop. 

Then  Robert  laughed.  "I'll  risk  Mr. Herrick,  by 
gum!" 

"But  the  law,  Rob—" 

"Law  be  hanged!  This  ain't  law.   It'slovel- 
That's  a  clever  fire  of  yours,  Nan,"  he  suggested, 
smiling  beatifically  at  the  hot  birch-blaze. 

He  thought  that  she  had  lighted  it,  and  she  did  not 
undeceive  him.  She  and  the  fire  exchanged  looks, 
and  kept  each  other's  counsel,  But  the  fire  laughed. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF 
AUREOLA 

HER  phenomenal  name  had  been  imposed  by  a 
mother  who  read  novels,  and  opposed  by  a  father  who 
manufactured  golf -shoes  and  mountain-climbers  — 
the  kinds  that  have  nails  in  the  soles.  Sentiment  and 
sense  struggled  in  the  child  of  one  of  those  difficult 
unions  which  may  acquire  more  consciousness  of 
happiness  than  they  give  evidence  of  achieving.  All 
her  life  she  vibrated  between  the  instinct  of  ideals  and 
the  conviction  of  realities;  as  she  grew  older  she  read 
more  poetry,  and  wore  an  extra  row  of  nails  in  her 
walking-boots. 

She  kept  her  father's  factory,  as  she  had  kept  her 
mother's  name.  Long  before  they  departed  for  a 
state  of  being  where,  whatever  may  be  the  custom  as 
regards  novel-reading,  it  seems  apparent  that  shoe- 
factories  will  have  become  an  anachronism,  her 
parents  had  reconciled  their  personal  divergence  in 
her  behalf  in  so  far  as  to  agree,  with  a  content  that 
might  have  signalized  a  gladder  marriage,  upon  their 
daughter's  name.  They  called  her  Aura. 

All  the  village  knew  her  by  her  Christian  name,  for 
all  the  village  honored,  and  most  of  it  loved,  the  soli- 

70 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

tary  and  sane  old  maid  who  had  managed  her  father's 
business  and  sustained  her  mother's  charities  with  the 
strong,  dual  nature  which  gave  her  something  of 
brilliance  and  eminence  among  her  less  composite 
neighbors — the  people  of  monochrome  or  monologue. 

These  called  her  "Miss  Aura,"  when  they  did  not 
call  her  "Miss  Orry."  The  Miss-Aura  citizens,  on 
the  whole,  lived  in  one  part  of  the  town,  and  the 
Miss-Orry  citizens  lived  in  another;  the  Miss-Aura 
persons  went  to  school  and  college,  and  the  Miss-Orry 
persons  went  into  the  factory;  but  these  were  trifling 
differences.  There  was  no  visible  difference  in  the 
rather  remarkable  feeling  offered  the  clear-thinking, 
warm-loving  woman  by  the  community  in  which  she 
had  spent  her  life,  now  rounding  to  fifty-six  happy, 
self-forgetting  years. 

She  came  as  near  to  being  universally  beloved  as  it 
is  possible  for  a  person  of  any  force  of  character  to 
become  and  remain.  As  she  was  beyond  question  the 
foremost  citizen  of  the  town  of  Glynn,  she  was,  in  point 
of  fact,  its  dearest. 

When  it  began  to  be  suspected  that  Miss  Aura  was 
ailing,  that  she  was  seriously  ill,  that  she  was  not 
likely  to  be  better,  the  whole  town  was  uneasy. 

When  it  trickled  out  somehow  that  the  vigorous, 
vivacious,  generous  woman  in  the  large  white  house 
by  the  factory  —  she  who  watched  with  other  people's 
sick,  and  comforted  their  mourning,  and  carried  their 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

poor;  she  who  knew  the  love-stories  of  all  the  girls, 
and  to  whom  the  wildest  boys  gave  confidences  that 
parents  and  teachers  never  heard ;  she  who  was  dear 
in  houses  where  there  was  trouble,  and  powerful  in 
hearts  where  there  was  temptation ;  she  who,  having  no 
children  of  her  own,  had  mothered  the  whole  town  — 
when  it  become  known  that  Miss  Aura  was  capable  of 
dying  like  anybody  else,  half  of  Glynn  was  skeptical; 
but  the  other  half  was  miserable. 

In  fact,  every  person  in  the  village  knew  that  Miss 
Aura  could  not  get  well  before  she  had  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  For  the  truth  was  that  nobody  was 
willing  to  tell  her. 

"I  won't.  I  tell  you,  I  won't  do  it!  Go  get  some 
body  else.  You  sha'n't  put  it  off  on  me.'" 

Thus  said  the  old,  the  very  old  doctor  who  had 
conducted  her  into  the  world  and  her  parents  out  of 
it,  who  had  looked  after  Aureola  herself  since  at  nine 
teen  and  in  war-time  she  fell  ill  of  her  first  and  only 
romance.  He  had  a  little  of  the  same  feeling  for  her 
that  everybody  had,  added  to  the  other  feeling  ex 
perienced  by  a  faithful  physician  towards  a  trustful 
patient. 

"Get  the  young  doctor  to  do  it.  Ask  the  minister. 
Tell  her  yourself.  Don't  ask  me.  I  '11  go  on  a  vaca 
tion  first,"  added  the  old  doctor,  with  a  blaze  in  his 
eyes,  but  a  tremor  on  his  long  white  beard.  "  Have  n't 

72 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

I  done  this  thing  for  enough  of  you  —  when  nobody 
else  could  be  got  to  do  the  job?  Who  told  old  Sam 
Dobson  — Lord!  how  he  cursed!  Who  told  young 
Amy  Grieve  —  five  children  and  a  whole  houseful  of 
relatives,  but  nobody  dared  open  his  lips.  Who  told 
Annie  McDonald  when  her  man  went  through  the 
ice  ?  And  Robert  Dawson  when  his  wife  slipped  under 
the  car  ?  I  tell  you,  there  has  n't  been  a  case  of  fibroid, 
or  Bright's,  or  hypertrophy,  —  no,  nor  a  drowning, 
nor  a  trolley  accident,  nor  a  railway  smash,  —  that 
has  n't  been  put  off  on  me :  my  own  death-certificates 
and  the  Almighty's  too.  Don't  you  know  a  doctor  's 
the  last  man  on  earth  you  should  pile  this  on  to?  I 
say  I  won't.  I  strike  at  this.  I  won't  tell  this  woman. 
I  '11  —  I  '11  go  to  Europe  first." 

In  truth,  the  old  doctor  was  so  much  disturbed  that 
he  took  a  train  to  New  York  that  afternoon,  and  was 
gone  some  weeks,  —  an  unprecedented  circumstance 
in  his  history. 

The  young  doctor  was  left;  but  he  evaded  the  re 
sponsibility  on  the  ground  of  his  youth  and  recent 
acquaintance  with  the  patient.  A  pardonable  pro 
fessional  pride  in  the  fact  that  this  public  calamity  had 
been  his  diagnosis  filtered  through  his  decorous  reluc 
tance  to  assume  the  burden  of  the  consequences. 

The  minister  was  in  town,  but  he  was  younger  than 
the  doctor,  and  a  certain  gentle  reserve  in  spiritual 
matters  on  the  part  of  his  valuable  parishioner  had  not 

73 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

encouraged  him  to  open  with  Miss  Aura  a  subject 
which  everybody  else  preferred  to  keep  closed. 

"I  will  do  my  duty,  of  course, "  he  said  plaintively, 
"but  I  cannot  at  present  see  duty  clearly  in  this  direc 
tion.  Has  the  lady  no  relatives  who  —  could  be  in 
duced?  Her  house  seems  always  to  be  filled." 

"  Always  was.  Always  will  be,"  curtly  said  the  next- 
door  neighbor,  one  Mrs.  Ranney,  who  had  introduced 
the  matter  to  the  young  minister.  "She  's  that  kind. 
Always  has  somebody  on  hand  't  needs  motherin'. 
Just  now  it 's  those  boys  —  second  cousins  —  nearest 
she  Js  got.  If  you  think  those  smokin',  slammin', 
singin',  swaggerin'  college  boys  fit  to  carry  news  like 
this  —  I  'd  ask  Emmyline  first,"  snapped  the  next- 
door  neighbor. 

"Who  is  Emmyline?"  inquired  the  young  minister, 
wavering  under  the  scorn  of  this  attack. 

"Why,  she 's  done  for  Miss  Orry  —  she  's  done  for 
Miss  Aura  —  this  twenty  years.  She  's  her  hired  girl. 
Would  you  recommend  our  leavin'  it  to  her?"  added 
the  neighbor,  scathingly. 

"I  would  do  my  duty,  of  course,"  repeated  the  pas 
tor,  "but  perhaps  some  person  who  has  known  the 
lady  longer  —  some  woman,  for  instance.  Why  not 
yourself,  Mrs.  Ranney?" 

"Me!"  cried  the  next-door  neighbor  —  "me!" 
Her  large  lips  quivered.  She  had  a  square,  freckled 
face,  and  it  worked.  "Why,  she  'n'  me  we  've  swapped 

74 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

patterns  and  receipts  these  fifteen  years!  She  's  rich 
V  1  'm  poor,  her  house  is  big  'n'  mine  's  little,  but 
she  's  never  let  on  to  make  me  feel  it,  never  once  in  all 
this  time.  And  the  things  that  woman  's  done  for  me, 
nobody  knowin'  but  us  two!  Me!  Well,  I  guess 
you  '11  have  to  find  somebody  't  don't  feel  to  her 
the  way  I  do  —  if  you  can,"  added  Mrs.  Ranney. 

She  was  a  big  woman,  and  she  began,  at  this,  to 
weep  in  a  slow,  big  kind  of  way,  which  so  affected  the 
young  minister  —  who,  if  he  had  got  to  see  a  woman 
cry,  cherished  a  preference  for  having  her  small  - 
that  he  fled  the  scene  and  the  subject  precipitately. 
Not,  however,  before  the  next-door  neighbor  had 
recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  shoot  after  the  re 
treating  divine  one  poisoned  arrow:  - 

"I  thought  such  things  were  what  parsons  were 


Miss  Aura  went  slowly  upstairs  to  her  own  room. 
It  was  early,  scarcely  eight  of  a  vivid  June  day  —  the 
most  vivid  of  any  day  that  she  could  remember  having 
lived,  since  she  was  nineteen  and  it  was  war-time.  It 
had  been  one  of  those  days  when  the  sky  is  a  hymn 
and  the  earth  is  a  song,  when  the  grass-blades  blaze 
and  the  leaves  tremble  with  delight,  when  every  dande 
lion  is  a  star  and  every  dandelion  ghost  a  spirit,  when  a 
robin's  song  sets  your  nerves  athrill,  and  a  rose  in  bud 
seems  a  thing  good  enough  to  explain  the  creation  of 

75 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

the  world.  It  had  been  one  of  those  days  when  trouble 
skulks,  and  pain  is  ashamed,  and  death  is  impossible; 
when  one  is  avid  for  life,  and  confident  of  having  it 
always;  when  the  sad  are  comforted,  and  the  glad  are 
ecstatic,  and  the  content  are  joyous. 

Miss  Aura  had  waked  that  morning  and  found  her 
self  happy.  Her  soul  overflowed.  Her  heart  lifted. 
Her  head  was  alert,  and  her  hands  laden.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  thought  of  every  person  she  knew  who 
needed  her  or  loved  her.  Schemes  and  dreams  of 
doing  little  kindnesses  or  giving  overlooked  com 
fort  fled  fast  through  her  clear  and  active  brain.  She 
had  one  of  those  exalted  hours  known  only  to  the 
strong  and  the  self-subduing,  when  the  possession 
of  joy  seems  eternal  because  the  power  to  bestow  it  is. 

"I  am  glad  I  am  alive,"  thought  Miss  Aura.  "I 
shall  live  a  long  time.  As  long  as  you  live  you  can 
help  somebody.  Life  is  a  glorious  thing." 

She  was  on  her  piazza,  tacking  the  woodbine,  when 
one  of  her  boy  cousins  came  out  —  he  was  the  only 
one  in  the  house  just  then  —  and  asked  her  to  mend 
a  glove.  He  did  it  something  awkwardly,  and  Miss 
Aura  noticed  that  he  looked  sober  —  for  a  lad. 

"Rob,"  she  asked,  with  her  mouth  full  of  tacks, 
"anything  wrong?" 

"I  'm  going  home,"  the  boy  blurted  out.  "People 
tell  me  you  're  not  well.  I  've  been  all  sorts  of  a  fool 
to  stay  so  long.  I  'm  not  quite  such  a  beast.  Say  — 

76 


SHE  HAD  ONE  OF  THOSE  EXALTED  HOURS 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

Cousin  Aura  —  I  wish  you  'd  take  care  of  yourself. 
I  wish  you  would." 

When  Miss  Aura  looked  at  the  college  boy,  she  saw 
that  there  were  real  tears  in  his  eyes. 

She  started  to  say,  "Who  's  been  talking  nonsense 
to  you?"  but  in  fact  she  said  nothing,  for  the  lad 
backed  away  into  the  house,  and  when  she  had  finished 
mending  his  glove,  he  was  upstairs  packing. 

She  did  not  follow  him,  —  she  could  hardly  have 
said  why,  —  but  went  into  her  sitting-room  and  sat 
down  to  draw  some  checks,  and  she  was  busy  at  her 
desk  when  Emmyline,  without  announcing  him,  ad 
mitted  the  young  doctor. 

He  was  a  very  young  doctor,  but  he  was  not  a 
stupid  one,  and  he  perceived,  without  saying  so,  that 
Miss  Aura  had  changed  since  he  saw  her  last.  She 
was  of  a  firm,  fine  presence ;  her  head  had  the  carriage 
which  belongs  to  tall  women  who  have  been  beautiful 
in  youth.  Miss  Aura's  eyes  were  dark  and  direct. 
She  turned  them  upon  the  young  doctor,  and  he 
wavered. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"I  came  to  see  you  —  about  —  a  case,"  parried  the 
young  doctor. 

Her  hand  moved  toward  her  check-book. 

"How  much?"  she  asked,  with  the  quick  cordiality 
which  made  it  so  easy  to  beg  of  Miss  Aura.  "  I  know 
you  would  n't  ask  if  it  were  not  urgent,  doctor." 

77 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

The  young  doctor  fumbled  on  about  the  case.  She 
drew  a  generous  check,  and  handed  it  to  him,  smiling. 
The  young  doctor  rose  to  go,  hesitated,  returned,  and 
stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hands. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  be  told,  Miss  Aura  —  " 

" Bad  news  ? "  interrupted  Miss  Aura.  "Any  of  my 
boys  gone  wrong?  It  can't  be  one  of  my  shop-girls. 
Scarlet  fever  at  the  Dawsons'  ?  Diphtheria  anywhere  ? 
Nan  McDonald  has  n't  —  has  she  ?  " 

The  young  doctor  shook  his  head  with  a  kind  of 
vexed  perplexity,  or  perplexed  vexation. 

"I  did  n't  suppose  that  you  were  a  dull  woman,"  he 
said.  He  found  himself  in  the  belief  that  she  was 
playing  with  him;  he  turned,  put  on  his  hat,  took  it  off 
again.  "I  was  not  speaking  of  your  fellow-citizens; 
I  referred  to  yourself." 

"Oh,  well,"  replied  Miss  Aura,  in  a  grieved  tone, 
"out  with  it!" 

She  had  risen  from  her  desk,  and  stood  at  her 
commanding  height,  which  looked  down  a  trifle  at 
the  young  man;  her  color  was  suddenly  high,  and 
out  of  her  eyes  a  certain  defiance  blazed  at  the 
physician. 

"You  should  take  the  greatest  possible  care  of  your 
health,"  ventured  the  young  doctor. 

"Can't,"  curtly  said  Miss  Aura;  "have  n't  got  the 
time." 

"You  have  a  serious  malady,"  persisted  the  physi- 

78 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

dan,  more  stoutly.  "I  have  been  requested  to  tell 
you  —  " 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Miss  Aura. 

The  young  doctor's  color  rose;  he  bowed,  and  left 
the  room. 

"Nothing  ails  me  but  these  spells/'  insisted  Miss 
Aura.  She  followed  him  into  the  hall;  the  woman's 
expression  had  changed,  but  the  fire  in  her  fine  eyes 
had  not  gone  down. 

"I  feel  well;  to-day  I  feel  well  enough  to  live 
forever." 

"I  have  not  the  reputation  of  being  an  alarmist," 
observed  the  young  physician,  coldly. 

He  closed  the  front  door,  and  his  retreating  foot 
steps  struck  with  scientific  precision  on  the  long  walk 
between  the  box  borders  that  Miss  Aura's  mother  had 
planted.  Miss  Aura  listened  to  the  curt  sound  with 
gentle  perplexity. 

"I  have  offended  the  young  doctor,"  she  thought. 
"I  must  find  out  why." 

Then  she  went  upstairs  to  help  Rob,  and  speedily 
forgot  the  young  doctor.  Half-way  up  she  had  to 
stop ;  then  again  before  she  reached  the  landing.  The 
college  boy  heard  a  little  stifled  cry,  and  sprang  in 
time  to  catch  her.  When  she  found  herself,  she  was 
lying  on  her  own  bed,  and  Rob  and  Emmyline  and 
Mrs.  Ranney  were  in  the  room. 

"I  must  have  had  one  of  those  spells,"  said 

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

Miss  Aura,   guiltily.   "And    all   Rob's    packing   to 
do!" 

She  put  her  feet  to  the  floor. 

"Emmyline  will  help  me/'  replied  the  college  boy, 
winking  violently.  He  and  Emmyline  went  out  of  the 
room.  Mrs.  Ranney  remained.  She  put  her  large 
hand  on  Miss  Aura's  small  one,  and  mightily  re 
strained  her. 

"You  lie  still,  Miss  Orry.  I  've  got  something  to 
say  to  you.  Here,  put  your  feet  up;  keep  'em  on  the 
hot-water  bag.  Don't  you  talk.  I  've  come  to  do  that 
myself." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Aura,  lying  back  on  her  pillows, 
"then  why  don't  you?" 

"I  'm  goin9  to,"  retorted  Mrs.  Ranney.    "It 's  a  - 
it 's  a  pretty  day,  is  n't  it  ?   A  regular  weather -breeder, 
though." 

"  I  never  knew  you  to  talk  about  the  weather,  Mary 
Ranney." 

"The  Junior  Endeavor  's  goin'  to  have  a  basket 
picnic  next  week,  Friday." 

"Did  you  come  over  here,  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning,  to  tell  me  that,  on  baking  day?" 

"Well  —  no.  I  don't  know  's  I  did,"  replied  Mrs. 
Ranney,  with  a  remote,  esoteric  air.  "Fact  is,  I  come 
to  see  you  on  a  —  it 's  very  important  —  I  'm  a  com 
mittee." 

"Church  fair?"  ventured  Miss  Aura.   "Chautau- 

80 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

qua  ?  Wednesday  Club  ?  Or  is  it  that  new  plan  for  a 
Civic  League?  Oh,  I  see.  It  must  be  the  Boys7 
Temperance,  or  the  Girls'  Friendly,  or  the  Factory 
Library,  perhaps.  Or  else  the  Mothers'  Rest  or  the 
Mercy  to  Animals.  How  much,  Mary?" 

Miss  Aura's  weak  hand  stirred  to  her  pocket. 

"I  must  have  left  it  down  with  my  check -book," 
she  said. 

Across  the  big,  freckled  cheek  of  the  next-door 
neighbor  the  color  of  oak-leaves  in  November  burned 
slowly. 

"I  don't  come  beggin',  Miss  Orry  —  not  of  sick 
folks  —  not  to-day." 

"I  'm  perfectly  well,"  persisted  Miss  Aura.  " No 
thing  ails  me  but  spells." 

"I  'm  a  committee  of  your  friends,"  burst  out  the 
next-door  neighbor;  "I  'm  a  committee  for  an  auto 
biography.  You  are  invited  to  write  one." 

"Whose?"  asked  Miss  Aura,  with  unexpected  in 
terest.  She  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow.  "I  should 
enjoy  doing  that.  I  like  to  write  and  read.  But  I 
never  have  had  time.  Whose  biography  is  it?" 

"Land  sakes,  Miss  Orry!"  cried  Mrs.  Ranney, 
with  a  groan.  "It 's  yours  I  'm  after!" 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Aura,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"You  see,"  groped  on  Mrs.  Ranney,  "the  ladies 
thought  —  they  said  —  as  you  was  n't  very  well  - 
and  you  'd  lived  such  an  interesting  life  —  so  long  — 

81 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

amongst  us  — and  so  many  folks  loved  you,  Miss 
Aura  —  they  said,  Miss  Orry,  if  you  'd  write  your 
autobiography  this  summer  —  it  might  —  if  anything 
should  ever  happen  —  not  that  anything  ever  will. 
But  everybody  sets  so  much  by  you,  dear,  and  so  I  'm 
a  committee  to  request  you  —  to  tell  you  —  Lord!" 
cried  the  committee,  "I  would  n't  do  it  again  for  no 
man!" 

She  sat  back  exhausted,  rose,  stooped,  and  kissed 
Miss  Aura  with  a  wet,  resounding  smack,  and  rolled 
out  of  the  room.  Miss  Aura  lay  quite  still  when  Mary 
Ranney  had  trundled  away. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  thought.  "It  is  a  very 
singular  thing;  but  I'll  do  it.  I'll  write  them  their 
autobiography." 

Miss  Aura  got  up  and  finished  Rob's  packing  and 
kissed  him  good -by;  ate  a  little  dinner,  and  tried  to 
sew  awhile  for  the  next  missionary  barrel,  but  found 
herself  more  and  more  perplexed  by  the  events  of  that 
extraordinary  day. 

For  the  fact  was  that  the  concerted  conscience  of 
her  fellow-citizens,  at  last  aroused  to  the  necessity  of 
somebody's  telling  Miss  Aura  that  she  could  never 
get  well,  had  broken  out  in  an  epidemic.  Everybody 
had  hit  upon  the  same  day  for  the  performance  of  this 
unwelcome  duty,  and  everybody,  so  far,  had  failed 
completely. 

In  the  afternoon  the  young  minister  added  himself 

82 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

to  the  unhappy  list.  His  reluctant  conscience,  having 
flayed  him  to  the  task,  well-nigh  deserted  him  at  the 
crisis.  He  made  a  pleasant,  impersonal  call,  carefully 
selecting  every  topic  in  the  scope  of  parish  proprieties 
excepting  that  which  had  brought  him  to  Miss  Aura's 
house.  He  talked  church  politics,  town  charities,  and 
the  Civic  League;  the  Junior  Endeavor,  the  Girls7 
Friendly  and  the  Boys'  Temperance,  the  Factory 
Library,  the  morning's  news,  Kipling's  last  poem, 
and  the  Harvard  and  Yale  game, 

Miss  Aura  spoke  and  listened  eagerly.  She  had  what 
she  called  a  beautiful  time.  She  had  never  known  that 
the  young  minister  could  be  so  entertaining.  She  was 
disappointed  when  his  manner  suddenly  flagged,  and 
he  began  in  a  remote  professional  way  to  introduce 
religious  topics.  When  he  inquired  about  her  spiritual 
condition,  Miss  Aura  politely  changed  the  subject  to 
house-plants,  and  branched  from  this  illimitable 
theme  to  the  pecuniary  circumstances  of  the  Dawsons 
and  the  Grieves.  Miss  Aura  was  a  good  parishioner 
and  a  good  Christian,  but  she  cherished  a  reluctance 
to  turning  her  soul  wrong  side  or  even  right  side  out 
for  the  inspection  of  ministers. 

"The  love  of  life,"  urged  the  young  minister,  "is  a 
healthy  instinct ;  but  the  imminence  of  death  —  and 
the  necessity  of  preparation  for  it  - 

"I  can't  stop  to  think  about  death,"  interrupted 
Miss  Aura.  "I  've  got  too  much  to  do." 

83 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

"Yet,  as  one  advances  in  years  -  ''  blundered  the 
inexperienced  minister. 

"  Sir !  "  cried  Miss  Aura.   "  I  am  only  fifty-six." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposed  the  young  man. 
"You  see,  I  am  twenty-eight,  and  our  standards  are, 
I  suppose,  not  synchronous.  I  only  wish  to  remind 
you  —  I  have  been  asked  to  tell  you  - 

"Tell  me  something  jolly!  "  demanded  Miss  Aura, 
irreverently.  "Death  is  n't  in  my  line,  you  see." 

"I  see,"  replied  the  baffled  clergyman,  but  without 
a  smile. 

He  changed  the  subject  to  the  Day  Nursery,  the 
Mothers'  Rest,  and  the  Mercy  to  Animals,  and 
Miss  Aura's  spirits  rose  to  their  natural  level.  She 
entertained  him  so  charmingly  that  he  quite  forgot 
what  he  had  come  to  say  to  her,  and  left  half  an 
hour  later,  as  happy  and,  to  all  appearances,  as 
unspiritual  as  herself. 

But  she  was  tired  when  the  young  minister  had 
gone,  and  Emmyline  found  her  lying  on  the  sofa  in 
the  dark.  Emmyline  lighted  the  gas,  and  the  face  of 
the  old  servant  showed  rigidlv  in  the  sharp  illumi 
nation. 

Emmyline  was  a  small  woman,  and  thin;  she 
stooped  a  little,  and  her  hair  was  grayer  than  Miss 
Aura's.  She  loved  Miss  Aura  with  the  long-tried, 
unillusioned  love  that  is  possible  only  between  mis 
tress  and  maid  —  an  old-fashioned  love  which  has 

84 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

almost  passed  out  of  date  in  our  domestic  economy. 
For  fifteen  years  the  two  solitary  women  had  shared 
"the  kingdom  called  home."  Neither  had  nearer  ties, 
and  their  affection  was  as  mutual  as  their  respect. 

Emmyline  came  up  and  stood  by  the  sofa;  her 
face  was  in  the  shadow,  she  stood  in  profile,  and  that 
brought  out  her  stoop. 

" Emmyline/'  began  her  mistress,  abruptly,  "I  'm 
not  a  fool,  am  I  ?  " 

"I  don't  know's  I  ever  said  you  was,"  admitted 
Emmyline,  cautiously. 

"This  house  has  been  full  of  people  all  day  trying 
to  say  something  they  have  n't  said,  Emmyline." 

"Think  so?"  asked  Emmyline,  but  her  work-worn 
hands  began  to  tremble. 

"I  don't  understand,  Emmyline.  I  can't  see  what 
they  're  all  up  to.  But  I  'm  not  a  fool.  There's  some 
thing.  I  want  to  know  what  it  is." 

"Lord!"  groaned  Emmyline.  "I  said  all  day 't 
would  be  left  for  me.  I  did  n't  hire  out  for  it." 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  Aura,  with  the  patient 
sweetness  that  always  brought  Emmyline  round. 
"You  need  n't  unless  you  want  to.  I  only  thought  - 
if  it  is  n't  very  good  news  —  I  'd  rather  hear  it  from 
you,  Emmyline.  I  'd  rather  than  from  anybody  else 
in  the  world.  We've  lived  together  —  so  long." 

"That 's  the  worst  on 't!  "  cried  Emmyline.  "  We 
can't  live  together  much  longer!" 

85 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

"What ?  "  gasped  Miss  Aura.  "Not  live  together! 
You  and  I,  Emmyline !  You  going  to  leave  me !  You! " 

"Oh,  Miss  Orry!  Miss  Orry!"  wailed  Emmyline. 
"It 's  you  that 's  a-goin'  to  leave  me  !  " 

The  old  servant  got  upon  her  knees  beside  the  sofa, 
and  threw  her  arms  about  Miss  Aura's  neck. 

"There  ain't  one  of  'em  had  the  pluck  to  darst  to 
tell  you,"  sobbed  Emmyline.  "Me  that  loves  you 
more  'n  the  whole  keboodle  of  'em  put  together  — 
I  've  got  to  do  it!  I  've  got  to  do  it!  Oh,  my  dear!  my 
dear!" 

So  Emmyline  told  her  —  all  there  was  to  tell. 

Now  Miss  Aura  was  going  slowly  upstairs.  Emmy- 
line  had  gone  back  to  wash  the  dishes.  The  house 
was  very  still.  The  street  light  shone  on  the  box 
borders  that  Miss  Aura's  mother  planted. 

"Mother  died  at  three  in  the  morning.  It  was  ebb 
tide,"  thought  Miss  Aura.  She  had  not  remembered 
this  before  for  some  years.  She  went  up  and  on,  and 
into  her  own  room.  She  locked  the  door  and  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  her  face  sank  into 
her  hands.  Suddenly  raising  her  head,  she  perceived 
that  the  room  was  dark,  and  felt  an  uncontrollable 
and  mysterious  fright.  She  groped  for  matches,  and 
lighted  her  candle  with  a  shaking  hand.  As  she  did 
so,  her  eye  fell  upon  a  little  book,  old,  and  so  much 
worn  that  the  cover  scarcely  held  to  its  place;  the 

86 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

print  was  so  small  that  Miss  Aura  had  not  been  able 
to  read  it  even  with  her  Boston  glasses  for  some 
years;  but  the  book  always  stood  upon  the  table  by 
her  bed. 

She  took  the  ragged  little  book  now,  and  held  it 
for  a  moment  thoughtfully.  Then  she  slid  slowly  to 
her  knees,  and  the  woman  who  would  not  talk  about 
her  spiritual  condition  to  her  minister  laid  her  cheek 
upon  the  Bible  that  her  mother  gave  her,  and,  with 
out  a  word,  for  the  first  time  admitted  to  her  soul  the 
consciousness  of  approaching  death. 

Inarticulate  prayer  like  that  expends  the  body,  but 
sustains  the  spirit,  and  Miss  Aura,  when  she  rose 
from  her  knees,  dropped  panting  upon  her  bed.  But 
she  found  that  her  feeling  of  fright  had  quite  left  her, 
and  presently  she  regained  her  strength  and  got  up 
to  go  downstairs. 

"Emmyline  will  be  worried,"  she  thought.  But 
she  whose  life  had  responded  always  to  the  claims  of 
other  people,  and  who  denied  herself  in  that  supreme 
hour  the  sacred  right  of  solitude  for  the  sake  of  an 
old  servant,  suddenly  found  herself  confronted  by  a 
power  stronger  than  the  habit  of  her  life.  This  was 
the  power  of  a  memory. 

Lingering  to  find  her  keys,  Miss  Aura  unlocked 
the  desk  which  stood  beyond  the  screen,  below  the 
crayon  picture  of  her  mother,  between  the  windows 
that  gave  the  sun.  She  carried  the  candle  and  set  it 

87 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

down;  drew  from  the  desk  a  small  photograph,  and 
held  it  to  the  fluttering  light.  It  was  an  old  photo 
graph,  dating  back  to  the  eighteen-sixties,  and  it  had 
yellowed  and  faded  so  that  the  portrait  seemed  to 
retreat  into  a  mist.  The  lad  was  like  the  wraith  of  a 
lad,  and  the  soldier  seemed  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  soldier. 
Does  young  love  become  an  apparition,  appearing 
and  disappearing  through  a  long,  preoccupied  life, 
visiting  the  heart  like  a  sweet  and  solemn  mystery, 
cherished  more  by  reverence  than  by  passion,  and 
becoming  more  a  vision  than  a  pain  ? 

Sometimes  Miss  Aura  may  have  thought  so.  That 
night  she  examined  the  picture  of  her  soldier  with  an 
attention  strangely  energized  and  poignant.  After 
she  had  laid  the  photograph  back  in  the  desk,  she  took 
it  out  again  and  lifted  it  to  her  lips,  but  most  quietly, 
and  without  tears. 

Then  she  went  downstairs  to  comfort  Emmyline, 
and  they  both  sewed  the  rest  of  the  evening  for  the 
missionary  barrel.  Aureola  went  late  to  bed,  and 
slept  soundly. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  she  awoke  from  a 
dreamless  night.  Beyond  the  salt-marshes  the  distant 
tide  was  rising.  The  June  morning  was  broadening 
to  a  hot  day.  The  birds  were  singing;  the  woodbine 
stirred  against  the  window  in  a  gentle  wind.  Dew  was 
on  the  box,  and  the  scent  of  the  yellow  roses  in  the 
garden  came  up  delicately.  Suddenly  Miss  Aura 

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

remembered  walking  one  day  in  the  garden,  but  not 
alone,  and  the  yellow  roses  brushed  against  her  white 
dress  and  dashed  it  with  gold.  Then,  too,  beyond  the 
marshes  the  distant  tide  was  rising.  That  was 
thirty  —  no,  that  was  almost  forty  years  ago. 

"Why,  I  suppose,"  she  said  aloud,  "after  all  this 
while  —  I  shall  see  Ralph. " 

She  went  downstairs  with  a  strange  emotion  upon 
her.  Her  heart  was  not  heavy,  yet  it  did  not  lift  as 
it  did  yesterday  morning.  She  had  put  on  a  white 
dress  by  some  impulse  which  she  could  not  have  ex 
plained,  and  Emmyline  glanced  at  it,  but  without 
remark.  She  and  Emmyline  avoided  each  other's 
eyes;  they  talked  of  the  thermometer  and  straw 
berries. 

"I  guess  you'll  take  it  easy  to-day,"  ventured 
Emmyline  at  last;  "it 's  goin'  to  be  a  scorcher." 

"  Oh,  I  've  got  nothing  at  all  to  do  to-day, "  replied 
Miss  Aura,  "only  those  checks  to  finish,  and  we  '11 
pack  the  missionary  barrel  and  get  it  off,  and  I  pro 
mised  the  Dawsons  I  'd  run  over,  —  the  baby 's  sick, 
—  and  I  feel  somehow  as  if  I  ought  to  see  Nan  Mc 
Donald  a  minute;  and  I  'm  due  on  the  library  com 
mittee  and  the  Day  Nursery  and  the  Mothers'  Rest. 
Oh,  I  said  I  'd  serve  on  the  Mercy  to  Animals.  But 
I  really  have  nothing  much  to  do.  I  promise  you  I  '11 
take  it  easy,  Emmyline." 

"Think  so!"  sniffed  Emmyline.  "Looks  like  it! 

89 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

What 's  Mis'  McDonald  gosgaddin'  over  this  time  o' 
day  for,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?  Folks  says  she  has  the 
second  sight." 

"It  must  be  Nan,"  murmured  Miss  Aura,  inaudi- 
bly.  It  usually  was  Nan.  Nan  was  one  of  the  too 
familiar  products  of  our  day  —  a  girl  who  had  got 
beyond  her  mother.  Nobody  could  do  much  with 
Nan  except  Miss  Aura.  But  when  she  saw  the  face 
of  the  Scotch  mother  that  morning,  Aureola's  own 
blanched.  She  turned  the  key  of  the  sitting-room, 
and  the  two  women  talked  in  low  tones  for  an  hour. 
Then,  without  consulting  Emmyline,  they  went  out 
together  into  the  hot  sun. 

The  sick  woman  had  quite  forgotten  that  she  was 
not  going  to  live  a  long  time.  Her  beautiful  face 
was  absorbed  and  stern.  She  carried  her  head  like 
St.  Ursula,  who  protected  eleven  thousand  virgins 
beneath  her  mantle. 

Miss  Aura  had  begun  the  first  day  of  her  "prepa 
ration  for  death"  by  a  divine  and  delicate  task  which 
spent  her,  soul  and  body.  She  was  trying  to  save  a 
tempted  girl  from  a  married  man. 

It  was  full  midsummer  before  any  one  said  any 
thing  to  Aureola  about  the  autobiography.  Then  Mrs. 
Ranney  asked  abruptly  one  day:  — 

" Is  it  done?" 

Miss  Aura  looked  quite  confused. 

90 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

"Do  you  mean  the  Factory  Library?  It  will  be 
finished  by  the  last  of  next  week.  If  it 's  the  fund  for 
the  Mercy  to  Animals,  no.  It  goes  slowly  this  year. 
But  I  think  I  can  make  it  up  —  almost. " 

"I  meant  that  autobiography,"  said  Mrs.  Ranney, 
reproachfully.  "I  am  a  committee  of  your  friends. 
I  feel  responsible. " 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Miss  Aura,  unexpectedly,  "I  Ve 
begun  the  autobiography.  In  fact,"  she  added,  "I 
believe  it 's  about  done." 

' '  Pretty  long  ? ' '  demanded  Mary  Ranney.  ' l  You  Ve 
known  so  many  interes/ing  things,  and  folks  set  so 
much  by  you." 

"I  '11  work  some  more  on  it  to-night,"  said  Miss 
Aura,  guiltily. 

That  evening  she  locked  herself  into  her  room, 
drew  from  her  desk  a  pile  of  manuscript,  and  slowly 
read  it  over  several  times.  The  manuscript  ran  thus : 

MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  am  glad  I  am  alive. 

I  was  born  in  Christmas  week  in  the  year  1845. 
This  event  occurred  in  the  town  of  Glynn,  and  in  the 
house  that  I  now  occupy. 

My  father  said  I  was  a  very  homely  baby. 

My  mother  said  I  cried  steadily  the  first  six  weeks 
of  my  life. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

I  think  I  must  have  done  up  most  of  my  crying  in 
those  six  weeks. 

The  first  time  that  I  remember  myself  I  was  not 
crying.  I  was  quite  happy. 

When  I  was  ten  I  had  the  measles. 

When  I  was  sixteen  I  joined  the  church. 

When  I  was  nineteen  there  was  a  war. 

When  I  was  thirty  I  took  the  management  of  my 
factory. 

Thus  I  became  acquainted  with  my  dear  girls  who 
work  upon  the  shoes. 

I  have  known  many  dear  girls.  I  have  known  a 
great  many  lovely  people. 

I  have  had  the  best  neighbors  that  any  woman  ever 
had  in  this  or  any  other  town. 

I  have  had  the  dearest  friends  whom  any  person 
could  have  in  this  or  any  other  world. 

I  have  received  more  kindness  than  I  can  begin  to 
remember,  and  more  affection  than  I  can  possibly 
deserve. 

Nobody  living  has  ever  done  me  a  wrong. 

I  cannot  remember  that  I  ever  hated  any  person. 
The  nearest  I  ever  came  to  it  was  once  where  a  man 
tried  to  do  a  harm  to  a  poor  girl  I  knew.  Then 
there  was  once  when  I  saw  a  man  beat  a  horse  to 
death. 

I  thought  I  should  enjoy  writing  this  autobio 
graphy;  but  I  find  it  very  hard  work. 

92 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

It  is  the  hardest  work  I  ever  did  in  my  life.  I  did 
not  know  it  was  so  hard  to  write. 

Perhaps  I  could  write  better  if  I  had  some  interest 
ing  subject. 

I  send  my  love  to  all  my  dear  girls,  and  my  neighbors 
and  my  boy  cousins,  and  to  everybody  in  Glynn. 

I  think  I  am  too  busy  to  write  an  autobiography. 
I  have  a  great  deal  to  do. 

I  have  always  had  a  great  deal  to  do.  I  have 
always  been  very  busy. 

I  have  always  been  very  happy.  Not  counting  a 
few  exceptional  instances  of  no  interest  to  any  person 
but  myself,  I  have  been  happy  all  my  life. 

I  am  glad  that  I  have  been  alive.  I  would  rather 
not  die  if  I  could  help  it;  but  I  am  glad  that  I  have 
lived. 

One  day  in  the  last  week  of  October  the  young 
minister  sat  in  his  study  trying  to  write  a  doctrinal 
sermon,  because  an  important  parishioner  had  com 
plained  that  the  pulpit  was  destitute  of  doctrinal 
sermons. 

It  was  a  bleak  day;  November  had  bitten  in  upon 
the  soft  flesh  of  a  rich  and  tender  autumn ;  there  was 
a  flurry  of  unseasonable  snow  in  the  air;  before  it  the 
dead  leaves  were  fleeing  like  unholy  ghosts,  and  the 
wind  came  straight  from  the  salt  marshes. 

The  doctrinal  sermon  went  hard.  The  minister 

93 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

thought  that  if  the  important  parishioner  had  not 
been  one  of  those  rich  people  who  rule  affairs  in  factory 
towns,  he  would  have  written  instead  a  short  sermon 
about  the  tenderness  of  Christ  to  sick  people,  which 
of  late  had  been  much  in  his  mind. 

He  was  not  sorry  to  be  interrupted  in  his  reluctant 
work  by  the  most  unexpected  caller  whom  the  par 
sonage  had  entertained  since  the  young  man  had 
occupied  it.  This  was  a  more  important  parishioner 
than  the  man  who  demanded  doctrinal  sermons.  It 
was,  in  fact,  Miss  Aura.  She  had  never  called  upon 
the  minister  before,  and  he  received  her  with  pro 
portional  interest.  She  delayed  somewhat  in  making 
known  her  errand,  and  he  confided  to  her  —  every 
body  confided  something  to  Miss  Aura  —  his  discom 
fort  about  the  doctrinal  sermon. 

"Doctrinal  fiddlesticks !"  cried  the  lady. 

"I  agree  with  you  perfectly,"  interrupted  the  minis 
ter.  "But  the  commercial  nature  —  he  is  in  cotton, 
I  believe,"  pursued  the  young  student,  vaguely. 

"Who  is  he?"  demanded  Miss  Aura,  with  a  sudden 
reduction  of  tone. 

The  minister  gave  the  name  of  the  important 
parishioner. 

Miss  Aura's  brows  darkened  to  a  visible,  almost  a 
savage  frown.  Evidently  struggling  to  withhold  ex 
planation  of  her  displeasure,  she  said  shortly:  — 

"Put  that  sermon  in  the  fire!  Write  one  about 

94 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

Pharisees  and  hypocrites!  —  I  've  come/'  she  added, 
with  one  of  her  sv/ift  and  fascinating  changes  of  man 
ner,  "to  talk  to  you  on  a  personal  matter.  I  never 
did  such  a  thing  before.  I  never  consulted  a  minister 
about  myself  in  all  my  life." 

"It  must  be  a  great  exigency  which  has  driven  you 
to  do  so,"  answered  the  minister,  quietly. 

The  tact  and  delicacy  of  this  reply  soothed  Miss 
Aura  so  much  that  she  felt  ashamed  of  having  expected 
to  be  met  by  anything  else. 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is,"  she  admitted,  with  strongly 
restrained  emotion.  "  But  I  don't  know  how  to  begin, 
all  the  same." 

"Don't  try,"  urged  the  young  pastor,  gently. 
"Break  into  the  middle  of  the  subject;  or  the  end,  for 
that  matter.  It  is  possible  that  I  understand  without 
being  told." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say,"  responded  Miss  Aura,  wearily. 
"  Everybody  in  town  understood  before  I  did.  I  can 't 
get  well.  I  suppose  you  know  that.  I  'm  going  to 
die.  I  am  — going  —  to  —  die,"  she  repeated.  An 
expression  of  incredulous  horror  settled  slowly  upon 
every  feature  of  her  strong  countenance;  it  was  as  if 
she  threw  off,  rather  than  drew  off,  a  mask  which  she 
had  worn  so  long  and  so  closely  that  it  had  clung  to 
her  flesh.  Her  face  seemed  to  tear  in  the  act.  She 
did  not  look  at  the  minister. 

1 1 1  have  lost  strength, ' '  she  resumed .  "I  am  not  as  I 

95 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

was  last  spring.  I  am  weaker  than  I  was  in  July. 
I  may  not  live  as  long  as  I  think  I  shall,  as  I  thought 
I  should.  I  understand  it  at  last  perfectly.  I  am 
going  to  die.  I  have  got  to  a  point  where  saying,  'I 
will  live,'  does  n't  amount  to  anything  any  more. 
I  've  got  to  die,  in  spite  of  me.  And  I  'm  not  ready." 

"Then  I  don't  know  who  is,"  exclaimed  the  min 
ister,  warmly. 

Miss  Aura,  who  was  expecting  a  homily  on  her 
spiritual  condition,  turned  squarely  around  and  pre 
sented  fully  to  the  young  man  an  astonished  and 
warring  face  on  which  the  ravages  of  her  malady  were 
but  lightly  etched.  Miss  Aura  was  one  of  those  people 
who  look  well  till  they  are  in  their  coffins. 

"It  is  n't  possible,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"that  you  really  understand." 

"No,"  he  replied;  "it  is  not  possible  for  me  —  a 
young  fellow  out  of  the  seminary  only  a  few  years  — 
to  understand  the  strength,  the  beauty,  the  sanctity  of 
a  character  like  yours." 

"Sanctity!"  interrupted  Miss  Aura.  "I  haven't 
got  a  bit  of  sanctity.  It 's  nothing  but  sense." 

"But  I  can  understand  that  I  do  not  understand," 
proceeded  the  minister,"  and  that  may  be  something." 

"You  are  a  remarkable  boy!"  cried  Miss  Aura, 
with  her  own  mischief,  and  smiling  merrily.  "Per 
haps  I  was  n't  such  a  fool  to  come  here,  after  all.  You 
see,  the  trouble  is,  I  have  n't  got  time  to  get  ready  to 

96 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

die.  I  'm  too  busy.  I  have  too  much  to  do.  I  mean 
to,  but  I  never  can  seem  to  catch  up.  I  say:  'Now  I 
will  think  about  dying.  I  will  pray  a  great  deal  more. 
I  will  read  more  chapters  at  night.  I  will  sit  down  and 
make  a  business  of  getting  ready  for  the  next  world.7 
I  say:  'You  've  got  to  go  there.  You  've  got  to  make 
a  decent  appearance  in  that  life  you  know  no  more 
about  than  that  poor  kitten  we  saved  from  the  medi 
cal  student  at  the  Mercy  to  Animals  last  week  knows 
how  to  write  a  doctrinal  sermon.  And  yet  you  've 
got  to  go  there.'  Oh ! "  with  a  break  in  her  firm  voice, 
" nobody  knows.  Nobody  can.  It's  only  those 
that  go  through  it  that  can  understand.  I  would  n't 
ask  it  of  you.  You  could  n't.  You  're  young  and 
well,  and  a  man  and  a  minister.  But  don't  you  see 
I  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  you  know  your 
business  ?  Come !  What  did  your  professors  teach  you 
to  say  to  a  middle-aged  woman  who  has  n't  got  time 
to  die?" 

The  clergyman  slowly  shook  his  head  in  silence. 

"I  understand  the  shoe  business  and  factories," 
continued  Miss  Aura,  "and  shop-girls  and  sick  neigh 
bors  ;  stray  dogs  —  and  all  those  things.  I  never  was 
at  a  divinity  school.  You  were.  What  will  become  of 
me  if  I  never  do  catch  up?  There  never  was  any 
body,  I  do  believe,  who  found  so  little  time  to  think 
about  her  own  soul.  You  see,  there  are  so  many  other 
people  —  all  my  poor  girls,  and  one  in  particular  I 

97 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

am  very  anxious  about.  Her  mother  and  I  take  turns 
going  out  evenings  to  watch  and  see  her  get  safely 
home.  And  then  there  are  always  so  many  people 
sick.  And  when  I  get  to  bed  at  last,  I  must  own  I  'm 
pretty  tired  —  tireder  than  I  was.  Oh,  I  don't  want 
any  sympathy !  I  can  stand  suffering.  I  can  stand  any 
thing  but  seeing  other  persons  suffer.  You  know  for 
yourself  how  much  harder  that  is.  But  come  now!  I 
should  like  to  know  if  I  go  crash  into  eternity  some 
day,  and  have  not  time  to  do  a  single  thing  to  get  ready 
-  what  then  ?  I  suppose  I  '11  be  blamed  for  it.  I 
suppose  I  shan't  be  fit  to  enter  good  society  —  up 
there.  Not  if  I  go  on  this  way.  And  I  presume  I  shall. 
Probably  I  shall  die  with  my  head  full  of  things. 
It 's  cram-jam  full  now.  Last  at  night,  first  at  day 
break  —  for  I  don't  sleep  as  I  used  to  —  things!  Not 
religious  things,  you  understand,  nothing  sacred,  or 
divine,  or  that.  Fancy  going  to  heaven  while  you  're 
planning  out  a  club  supper  for  shop-girls,  or  trimming 
a  hat  for  your  cook,  or  sending  letters  to  college  boys 
who  have  got  into  a  scrape,  or  —  or  writing  checks  for 
somebody.  Or  perhaps  you  're  chloroforming  a  dis 
eased  dog  that  nobody  would  keep  and  nobody  would 
touch.  Come!  Out  with  it!  What  will  become  of  me 
if  I  never  have  time  to  think  about  what  you  called  my 
spiritual  condition?" 

"  Did  I  ever  call  it  names  ?  "  interposed  the  minister. 
"At  any  rate,  I  never  will  again." 

98 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

"Do  you  think  they'll  send  me  to  hell?"  added 
Miss  Aura,  whimsically.  She  spoke  right  on,  as  if 
she  had  not  been  interrupted. 

"If  they  do,  then  I  don't  know  anybody  who  will 
get  to  heaven,"  observed  the  inexperienced  pastor.  "  I 
can't  teach  you,  Miss  Aura.  I  can't  help  you.  You 
have  taught  me  far  too  much.  But  it  seems  to  me,  if 
I  were  you,  I  would  n't  trouble.  I  would  n't  bother 
myself  about  these  eschatological  difficulties." 

Miss  Aura  nodded  comfortably. 

"Yes,  I  know.  Eschatology  means  last  things. 
Why  did  n't  you  say  so?"  she  added. 

"I  shall,  next  time,"  replied  the  young  minister, 
humbly.  He  gave  her  his  blessing,  such  as  it  was, 
and  comforted  her,  as  he  could;  and  then  the  very 
young  pastor  had  to  send  for  the  very  young  doctor 
suddenly,  for  the  agitation  of  her  first  and  last  "  spir 
itual"  interview  with  a  minister  had  been  too  much  for 
Aureola.  She  slid  quietly  off  the  edge  of  her  chair,  and 
dropped  upon  the  study  floor. 

She  grew  somewhat  more  amenable  after  this; 
followed  advice,  up  to  a  point,  and  promised  every 
body  with  suspicious  readiness  that  she  would  be 
careful. 

When  the  old,  the  very  old  doctor  said,  "Aureola, 
you  must  put  in  a  telephone,"  she  put  one  in.  When 
the  young  doctor  (who  afterwards  found  occasion  to 
wish  he  had  not)  told  her  she  must  keep  a  horse,  she 

99 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

bought  a  horse.  This  she  did  without  objection,  be 
cause  it  provided  a  situation  for  Nan  McDonald's 
brother  Ja,  and  rides  for  half  the  invalids  in  town. 
But  she  got  very  tired  entertaining  the  invalids,  so  she 
used  to  stay  at  home  and  let  Ja  drive  them  out  without 
her.  In  fact,  Aureola,  as  everybody  could  see,  was 
" losing,"  but  nobody  dared  to  tell  her  so.  They  were 
afraid  she  would  take  on  some  terrible  spurt  of  self- 
denial,  and  waste  herself.  She  moved  through  what 
remained  to  her  of  time,  like  the  old  Greek  racer  who 
ran  and  carried  fire,  holding  her  torch  above  her  head. 
She  worked  as  if  she  expected  annihilation.  The 
Christian  doctrine  of  eternal  life  seemed  to  have  gone 
out  of  her  mind.  One  would  have  thought,  who 
observed  the  woman,  that  the  present  moment  was 
the  last  chance  to  exist,  and  that  existence  meant 
nothing  whatever  but  the  relief  of  other  people's 
miseries.  Of  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity  Aureola 
had  made  an  art,  as  another  paints  or  writes  or  sings. 

She  spent  herself  with  a  divine  fervor,  behind  which 
there  was  something  of  the  deliberation  and  calm 
pertaining  always  to  art.  While  she  seemed  most  mad 
she  was  most  sane.  Thus  the  autumn  went  with  her, 
and  winter  found  her  weakened,  radiant,  and  sur 
charged  with  loving  activities.  Then  there  happened 
that  which  is  recalled  in  Glynn  to  this  day  with  hushed 
voices  and  brimming  eyes. 

One  night  in  late  December  Miss  Aura  was  lying 
100 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

on  the  sofa  downstairs,  pale  and  peaceful,  her  noble 
day's  work  done,  and  her  hard  night  before  her,  - 
for  she  battled  much  for  breath  when  she  should  have 
slept,  —  when  voices  were  heard  wrestling  in  the 
hall:  that  of  Emmyline,  strident,  imperious,  deny 
ing;  that  of  another,  pleading  and  claiming  admis 
sion  with  a  note  of  anguish  which  brought  Aureola's 
feet  to  the  floor  in  an  instant.  She  called  Emmyline 
peremptorily. 

"It 's  that  everlasting  never-dyin'  Mis'  McDonald 
gosgaddin'  over  here  in  a  snow-storm  after  you,"  cried 
Emmyline,  with  holy  anger.  "Talk  about  second 
sight!  First  sight  of  you  would  teach  her  to  leave  you 
be.  You  're  a-murderin'  of  Miss  Orry!"  blazed  Em 
myline,  turning  upon  the  Scotchwoman. 

But  Miss  Aura,  when  her  compassionate  eyes  had 
met  the  mother's,  said:  "Emmyline,  bring  my  furs 
and  sleighing-hood.  Tell  Ja  to  put  Peter  into  the 
double  sleigh.  I  am  going  out,  Emmyline.  Do  you 
understand ?  /  am  going" 

By  this  time  Annie  McDonald  had  thrust  out  a 
hand  from  whose  shaking  grasp  a  bit  of  paper  flut 
tered  to  the  floor.  Even  then  she  allowed  Miss  Aura 
to  stoop  and  pick  it  up  herself.  It  was  a  half-sheet 
of  pink,  perfumed  note-paper,  torn  and  stained,  wet 
with  snow  and  tears;  it  contained,  in  a  few  words,  one 
of  the  most  piteous  outcries  of  this  sad  world  —  the 
farewell  of  a  ruined  girl  to  her  mother. 

101 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

"He  took  her  in  a  sleigh,"  said  the  Scotchwoman, 
dully.  " They've  driven  yander  to  the  meshes.  I 
see  them  dashin'  by.  I  called  after  the  mon  for  the 
luve  of  heaven  an'  her  mither  —  but  he  's  got  her 
in  the  sleigh." 

"I'll  get  him  in  a  sleigh!"  answered  Miss  Aura. 
Her  voice  was  terrible,  and  so  was  her  face.  With  this 
undramatic  comment  she  passed  the  dramatic  mo 
ment  —  flung  on  her  furs,  brushed  the  mother  aside, 
pushed  Emmyline  off,  ran  out  into  the  snow,  herself 
helping  Ja  to  get  the  heavy  harness  on,  and  whirled 
away  with  the  lad  into  the  storm.  She  took  two  whips ; 
one  she  kept  in  her  own  hand. 

"An?  for  what  should  we  be  goin'  to  the  meshes?  " 
complained  Ja,  stupid  and  rebellious,  after  the 
manner  of  his  kind  when  the  unexpected  occurs. 
Although  the  storm  was  assuming  the  windpipe  of  a 
blizzard,  Miss  Aura  put  her  lips  to  the  boy's  ear,  and 
whispered  what  she  had  to  say,  so  careful  was  she 
of  long  habit  about  the  reputation  of  a  girl.  Of  the 
worst  in  town  no  person  had  ever  heard  Miss  Aura 
repeat  a  severe  or  slighting  word. 

Now,  indeed,  the  lad  set  his  teeth  and  laid  the  whip 
on  the  horse.  The  sleigh  sped  into  the  throat  of  the 
storm.  Miss  Aura  said  nothing  more.  She  drew  her 
sleighing-hood  far  over  her  face.  Once  or  twice  Ja 
heard  her  gasp.  Only  once  she  cried :  — 

"Turn  around  —  quick  —  a  minute!  " 
1 02 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

Ja  turned  and  got  her  back  to  the  wind  till  she 
could  recall  her  breath.  Her  lips  were  purple,  and 
her  cheeks.  She  went  so  far  as  to  say:  - 

"Wait  a  minute  longer! " 

Then  they  turned  and  dashed  on.  The  snow, 
though  it  slew  the  breath  and  froze  the  blood,  was 
light,  and  accumulated  slowly.  Miss  Aura's  hand 
some  sleigh  flew  down  the  long  marsh  road  like  an 
aeroplane.  She  crouched  under  the  fox  robe  and 
tried  to  hold  it  up  to  her  throat.  But  the  inability  to 
use  her  arms  prevented;  these  dropped,  and  the  robe 
with  them;  it  slid  to  her  knees.  She  had  laid  the  whip 
upon  the  robe.  The  salt  wind  drove  from  the  sea;  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  it  drove  into  her  soul- 

"Blank  him  to  blank!"  yelled  the  lad,  suddenly. 
"I  see  him!  I  see  Jem!  I  see  'em  in  a  cutter  yander 
down  acrost  the  bridge!" 

Ja  stood  up  in  the  sleigh,  lashing  and  swearing. 
Praying  and  crying,  Miss  Aura  clutched  her  extra 
whip,  and  the  president  of  the  Mercy  to  Animals,  she 
who  would  go  twenty  miles  to  find  an  abused  kitten, 
she  who  treated  her  horse  like  a  younger  brother, 
who  babied  and  spoiled  him  past  the  lot  of  any  other 
horse  in  town,  brought  down  the  whip,  the  second 
whip,  on  Peter's  quivering  flank,  and  overtook  the 
cutter  just  beyond  the  bridge. 

It  will  never  be  known  just  how  she  did  it,  but 
somehow  she  rode  the  fellow  down,  hurled  herself  out, 

103 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

and  barred  his  way,  standing  straight  and  tall  across 
the  road.  Before  he  could  collect  himself,  she  had 
her  hand  on  the  bridle. 

"Come,  Nan,"  she  said  quietly. 

There  was  a  street  lamp  just  there,  —  the  rough 
town  kept  the  lonely  marsh  road  lighted  in  self- 
defense,  —  and  the  flickering  kerosene  gave  a  sight  of 
the  Scotch  girl,  pale  and  pretty,  weak  of  mouth,  warm 
of  eyes,  a  poor  creature,  to  be  spoiled  and  flung 
away. 

It  gave,  too,  a  swift  and  cowardly  vision  of  the  man, 
whose  wife  trusted  him,  whose  children  loved  him, 
whose  neighbors  honored  him,  whose  church  deferred 
to  him.  He,  indeed,  was  the  important  parishioner 
who  demanded  doctrinal  sermons. 

Miss  Aura  stood,  as  we  say,  very  straight  and  tall. 
She  had  her  St.  Ursula  look.  She  was  divinely 
beautiful  and  divinely  angry. 

With  her  weakened  arms  she  raised  her  extra  whip 
and  brought  the  lash  down  on  the  neck  and  cheek  of 
the  important  parishioner,  once,  twice,  and  perhaps 
again.  And  the  brother  of  the  girl,  without  staying  to 
ask  permission,  joined  in  from  behind  with  the  other 
whip. 

"Come,  Nan,"  Miss  Aura  spoke  again.  "Come 
home  with  me  to  your  mother." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Nan  took  it  with  hanging 
head,  and  followed  the  lady  like  a  dog. 

104 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

"I'm  sorry,  Peter,"  panted  Miss  Aura.  She  laid 
her  shaking  hand  on  her  sweating  and  astounded 
horse.  "It  was  between  you  and  the  girl.  We '11  drive 
home  slowly,  Peter." 

Now,  in  fact,  they  drove  home  very  slowly,  for 
neither  Nan  nor  Ja  expected  to  get  Miss  Aura  home 
at  all.  But  her  indomitable  spirit  served  her,  and 
Emmyline,  crying  silently  and  savagely,  was  there 
to  meet  them  at  the  end  of  the  path,  where  the  snow 
lay  on  the  box  borders.  Emmyline  had  telephoned 
for  the  young  doctor,  and  he  and  Ja  carried  Miss  Aura 
in  and  up  to  her  own  bed. 

There  she  lay  quietly  for  a  few  days,  disturbed  at 
first  when  she  found  she  could  not  get  up  and  go  to  the 
fair  for  the  Mercy  to  Animals;  but  she  accepted  this 
disappointment  cheerily,  as  she  had  all  the  others  of 
her  life. 

It  was  left  for  the  very  old  doctor,  after  all,  to  tell 
her  —  he  who  had  brought  her  into  the  world  and 
helped  her  parents  out  of  it.  One  evening  she  was 
looking  at  the  crayon  portrait  of  her  mother  above 
the  desk  where  the  misty  photograph  was  locked, 
when  a  face,  with  the  accumulated  pity  of  more 
than  four-score  beneficent  years  upon  it,  bent  over 
the  bed. 

"Why,  doctor!"  said  Aureola.  "I  thought  you 
had  a  bad  cold.  You  should  n't  have  come  out  in  the 
night  air  to  see  me.  What  did  you  do  it  for  ?  " 

105 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

But  she  perceived,  as  soon  as  she  asked,  what  he 
did  it  for. 

" Doctor,"  asked  Miss  Aura,  "is  this  it?" 

The  old  doctor  nodded  without  speaking,  and 
turned  his  face  away. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  replied  Aureola,  gently.  She 
thought  she  heard  some  one  crying,  and  looking  about, 
was  astonished  to  see  how  many  people  were  in  the 
room. 

Mary  Ranney  was  there.  She  stood  looking  over 
the  screen.  Her  square  face,  with  last  summer's 
freckles  still  upon  it,  appeared  strange  to  Miss  Aura, 
like  a  big  bodiless  cherub  that  was  overgrown.  The 
Scotchwoman  was  there,  but  she  showed  no  face 
at  all,  having  buried  it  in  the  bedclothes  where  she 
knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Somewhere,  quite  out 
of  sight  in  the  hall  or  on  the  stairs,  a  girl  was 
sobbing. 

The  young  doctor  was  there,  and  the  young  minister. 
Emmyline  was  there.  She  sat  on  the  other  side  of 
the  bed,  jealously  holding  one  of  Miss  Aura's  hands 
in  her  thin,  hard  ringers.  Oddly  it  occurred  to 
Aureola  at  the  moment  how  pleased  Emmyline  had 
always  been  because  she  wore  a  size  smaller  glove 
than  her  mistress  did.  Emmyline  sat  in  profile,  and 
that  brought  out  her  stoop. 

Rob  was  there,  too.  Miss  Aura  became  aware  that 
the  boy  was  sitting  out  of  sight  and  had  his  arm 

106 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AUREOLA 

about  her,  behind  the  pillows.  She  had  treated  all 
those  boys  alike,  but  only  Rob  had  cared  enough  to 
come. 

"Why,  Rob,"  she  said,  "you  're  spoiling  your 
vacation  —  for  me!" 

But  she  was  pleased  that  he  was  there,  for  the  power 
of  kin  is  strong,  and  the  love  of  kin  is  precious  at  the 
end  of  life.  "No  debts  this  term,  Rob?"  she  whis 
pered.  "That's  good,  dear." 

Miss  Aura  looked  all  around  the  room;  her  eyes, 
quite  clear  and  strong,  moved  to  the  faces  of  her 
friends  each  in  turn.  Suddenly  her  lips  twitched,  and 
she  laughed. 

"It  looks  like  the  ' Death-bed  of  Calvin/  or  'Last 
Hours  of  Daniel  Webster.'  Doctor,  do  give  them  —  a 
better  pose." 

Then  she  beckoned  to  the  minister. 

"I  told  you  so,"  she  complained.  "I  said  I  should 
go  crash  into  eternity,  doing  something  I  should  n't. 
And  here  I  am  laughing !  Besides,"  she  added,  "  I  did 
a  dreadful  thing.  I  got  dreadfully  angry.  I  horse 
whipped  —  a  —  man." 

"I  honor  you  for  it!"  replied  the  young  pastor. 

"I  hope  I  did  n't  hurt  him  —  very  much/'  panted 
Miss  Aura.  "I  didn't  mean  to.  But  I  think  he '11 
keep  away  from  her  —  now  —  don't  you?" 

Then  her  mind  returned  persistently  to  the  thoughts 
that  had  been  troubling  her,  touching  her  own  unfit- 
To; 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

ness  for  the  life  invisibly  to  be;  and  she  detained  the 
young  minister  to  ask:  — 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  to  me?  You  ought  to 
know  your  trade.  You  must  see  that  I  've  been  too 
busy.  I  have  never  had  time  to  make  preparation  for 
death.  To-night  I  haven't  even  read  my  chapter. 
Where's  Nan?  "  she  asked  anxiously.  "I  thought 
Nan  was  in  the  house.  She  hasn't  gone  out  — 
sleigh-riding  —  has  she?" 

Somebody  called  Nan.  She  came  in  with  hanging 
head,  and  knelt  instinctively.  The  college  boy  made 
way  for  her,  moving  to  the  other  side,  where  Emmy- 
line  was,  and  Miss  Aura  feebly  put  her  arm  around 
Nan's  neck. 

"The  Lord  bless  them  and  keep  them  —  my  poor 
girls  —  for  I  can't.  I  can't  do  it  any  longer,  Nan," 
said  St.  Ursula. 

After  this  she  spoke  a  little  about  her  shop-girls,  and 
the  Mercy  to  Animals;  tried  to  say  what  she  wanted 
done  for  Emmyline,  and  the  Factory  Library,  and  for 
Peter,  and  for  some  of  her  poorest  people. 

But  she  soon  ceased  to  try  to  talk  much.  She 
made  it  understood  that  she  wished  the  desk- 
drawer  unlocked  and  the  manuscript  autobiography 
taken  therefrom.  This  she  put  into  Mrs.  Ranney's 
hands. 

"I'm  sorry  it  isn't  longer,  Mary  Ranney,"  she 
apologized;  "but  I  found  it  —  very  hard  work." 

1 08 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

The  night  was  long,  and  more  air  was  needed  in  the 
room.*  The  old  doctor  sent  some  of  the  neighbors 
away. 

The  night  was  long  and  the  conflict  strong.  Miss 
Aura  did  not  die  like  a  weak  person.  Yet  those  who 
loved  her  best  said  afterward  that  it  was  the  happiest 
passing  they  had  ever  seen.  She  treated  death  as  she 
had  treated  life  —  like  a  great  opportunity,  and  a  glad 
one. 

"Are  you  sure  this  is  it?"  she  repeated  to  the  old 
doctor.  "I  have  often  suffered  more  than  this  —  a 
great  deal  more." 

"You  ought  to  tell  people,"  she  managed  to  add, 
"that  dying  is  easier  than  living.  Tell  them  I  said 
how  easy  it  is.  It  might  be  of  use  to  —  somebody," 
she  urged,  anxious  to  give  comfort,  anxious  to  save 
pain  to  the  very  end. 

She  did  not  say  anything  more  about  her  religious 
views,  or  her  personal  feeling  concerning  the  great 
event  which  was  upon  her.  A  certain  reserve  which 
was  natural  to  her  in  such  matters  exhibited  itself,  as 
it  always  had.  Once  she  asked  for  her  mother's  Bible, 
and  Rob  put  it  into  her  hand.  She  laid  her  cheek  upon 
it  and  kept  it  there. 

As  the  cold  night  moved  solemnly  toward  daybreak, 
and  the  tide  turned  on  the  salt-marshes,  she  found 
that  she  did  not  see  plainly.  Only  Emmyline's  face 
remained  visible  to  her.  The  old  servant  was*  the  last 

109 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

person  whom  she  saw  —  Emmyline  sitting  in  profile, 
with  her  stoop. 

At  three  in  the  morning,  at  the  ebb  of  the  tide, 
Miss  Aura  said  suddenly  and  quite  distinctly:  — 

"Why,  Ralph!  Why,  Ralph!" 

But  nobody  knew  what  she  meant,  and  the  two 
doctors  said  she  wandered. 

When  the  Scotchwoman,  who  had  the  second  sight, 
came  out  of  her  own  house  to  go  back  to  the  other  in 
the  freezing  dawn  (for  she  could  not  stay  away),  she 
stood  still  in  the  snow  with  a  sudden  stricture  at  the 
heart,  half  of  awe  and  half  of  fright  —  for  there,  she 
said,  she  met  Miss  Orry  walking  down  the  path  be 
tween  the  box  borders  that  her  mother  had  planted. 
Beside  her,  the  Scotchwoman  always  told,  there 
walked  a  lad.  His  face  was  the  face  of  a  soldier  lad 
beneath  an  army  cap. 

"AnJ  the  twa  gaed  doon  the  road  thegither  an' 
went  their  way  beyand  the  een  of  me." 

When  the  young  doctor  heard  this  he  smiled;  but 
the  young  minister  pondered. 

Now,  when  Mary  Ranney  came  to  read  over  the 
autobiography  of  Aureola,  she  found  it  very  short  and 
all  unfinished,  as  we  have  seen.  It  set  forth  the  facts 
that  Miss  Aura  was  born,  as  she  died,  in  Christmas 
week,  that  she  had  the  measles,  that  she  joined  the 
church,  that  when  she  was  nineteen  there  was  a  war, 

no 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

that  she  sent  her  love  to  all  her  dear  girls,  that  she 
had  been  always  quite  busy  and  very  happy,  that  no 
person  had  ever  done  her  a  wrong,  nor  had  she  hated 
any  person,  and  that  she  was  glad  she  was  alive. 

Like  the  sacred  book  of  the  Apocalypse,  nothing 
had  been  added,  nor  could  be,  to  this  brief  record  of 
the  dearest  and  noblest  life  that  the  people  of  Glynn 
had  ever  known. 

Aureola  might  have  read  her  beautiful  biography 
written  in  their  hearts;  and  heart  biographies  are  the 
only  true  ones,  as  we  know. 

For  they  poured  out  on  the  day  of  Miss  Aura's 
burial  (it  was  a  brilliant  day  and  warm)  like  the  tide 
overwhelming  the  marshes,  a  strong,  impulsive  force 
of  human  love  and  grief  such  as  any  other  artist  might 
have  envied  from  his  soul  —  they  who  write,  or  paint, 
or  sing,  and  live  and  die,  perhaps,  starved  for  love  and 
frozen  for  its  evidence.  She  who  had  been  this  other 
kind  of  artist,  she  who  had  the  passion  of  humanity 
and  the  genius  for  it,  and  the  will  to  perfect  herself  in 
it,  went  to  her  grave  right  royally.  A  throng  followed 
her,  not  weeping  much,  —  because,  if  she  had  taught 
them  anything,  she  had  taught  them  cheerfulness  and 
self-restraint,  -  -  but  looking  bereft  and  awed ;  the 
mill-people,  the  very  poor,  the  overlooked,  the  cross- 
grained  and  the  sick,  the  unpopular,  the  tempted,  and 
the  unhappy;  lonely  people,  and  poor  girls  whom  no 
one  else  befriended. 

in 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  AUREOLA 

Far  behind  them  all  one  walked,  veiled,  with 
drooping  head,  but  holding  tight  her  mother's  hand. 

And  Emmyline  rode  with  Rob  among  the  relatives. 
Emmyline  felt  fiercely  that  she  was  the  only  real 
mourner  of  them  all.  Who  else  knew  how  precious 
Miss  Aura  could  be  every  day?  For  the  shared  life 
is  the  test  of  love  and  the  measure  of  loss. 


A  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE 

WHEN  the  White  Mountain  express  to  Boston 
stopped  at  Beverly,  it  slowed  up  reluctantly,  crashed 
off  the  baggage,  and  dashed  on  with  the  nervousness 
of  a  train  that  is  unmercifully  and  unpardonably 
late. 

It  was  a  September  night,  and  the  channel  of  home- 
bound  summer  travel  was  clogged  and  heaving. 

A  middle-aged  man  —  a  plain  fellow,  who  was  one 
of  the  Beverly  passengers  —  stood  for  a  moment  star 
ing  at  the  tracks.  The  danger-light  from  the  rear  of 
the  onrushing  train  wavered  before  his  eyes,  and 
looked  like  a  splash  of  blood  that  was  slowly  wiped 
out  by  the  night.  It  was  foggy,  and  the  atmosphere 
clung  like  a  sponge. 

"No,"  he  muttered,  " it  's  the  other  way.  Batty 's 
the  other  way." 

He  turned,  facing  towards  the  branch  road  which 
carries  the  great  current  of  North  Shore  life. 

"How  soon  can  I  get  to  Gloucester  ?"  he  demanded 
of  one  who  brushed  against  him  heavily.  He  who 
answered  proved  to  be  of  the  baggage  staff,  and  was 
at  that  moment  skillfully  combining  a  frown  and  a 
whistle  behind  a  towering  truck;  from  this  two  trunks 


A  CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


and  a  dress -suit  case  threatened  to  tumble  on  a  bull- 
terrier  leashed  to  something  invisible,  and  yelping  in 
the  darkness  behind. 

"Lord!  This  makes  'leven  dogs,  cats  to  burn, 
twenty-one  baby-carriages,  and  a  guinea-pig  travelin' 
over  this  blamed  road  since  yesterday.  —  What 's 
that  ?  Gloucester  ?  —  6.45  to-morrow  morning. " 

"Oh,  but  look  here!"  cried  the  plain  passenger, 
"that  won't  do.  I  have  got  to  get  to  Gloucester  to- 
night." 

"So's  this  bull-terrier,"  groaned  the  baggage- 
handler.  "He  got  switched  off  without  his  folks  — 
and  I  Ve  got  a  pet  lamb  in  the  baggage-room  bleat - 
in'  at  the  corporation  since  dinner-time.  Some  galoot 
forgot  the  crittur.  There 's  a  lost  parrot  settin'  along 
side  that  swears  in  several  foreign  languages.  I  wish 
to  Moses  I  could!" 

The  passenger  experienced  the  dull  surprise  of  one 
in  acute  calamity  who  wonders  that  another  man  can 
jest.  He  turned  without  remark,  and  went  to  the 
waiting-room;  he  limped  a  little,  for  he  was  slightly 
lame.  The  ticket -master  was  locking  the  door  of  the 
office,  and  looked  sleepy  and  fagged. 

"Where's  the  train  to  Gloucester?" 

"Gone." 

" T  ain't  gone?" 

"  Gone  half  an  hour  ago. " 

The  official  pointed  to  the  clock,  on  whose  face  an 
114 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


ominous  expression  seemed  to  rest,  and  whose  hands 
marked  the  hour  of  half -past  twelve. 

"  But  I  have  got  to  get  to  Gloucester! "  answered  the 
White  Mountain  passenger.  "We  had  a  naccident. 
We  're  late.  I  ain't  much  used  to  travelin'.  —  I  sup 
posed  they  7d  wait  for  us.  I  tell  you  I  've  got  to  get 
there." 

In  his  agitation  he  gripped  the  arm  of  the  other, 
who  threw  the  grasp  off  instinctively. 

"You  '11  have  to  walk,  then.  You  can't  get  any 
thing  now  till  the  newspaper  train. " 

"God!"  gasped  the  belated  passenger.  "I  've  got 
a  little  boy.  He  's  dying. " 

"Sho!"  said  the  ticket-master.  "That's  too  bad. 
Can  you  afford  a  team  ?  You  might  try  the  stables. 
There 's  one  or  two  around  here." 

The  ticket -master  locked  the  doors  of  the  station 
and  walked  away,  but  did  not  go  far.  A  humane  un 
easiness  disturbed  him,  and  he  returned  to  see  if  he 
could  be  of  any  use  to  the  afflicted  passenger. 

"I  '11  show  you  the  way  to  the  nearest,"  be  began 
kindly. 

But  the  man  had  gone. 

In  the  now  dimly  lighted  town  square  he  was,  in 
fact,  zigzagging  about  alone,  with  the  loping  gait  of 
a  lame  man  in  a  feverish  hurry. 

"There  must  be  hosses,"  he  muttered,  "and  places. 
—  Why,  yes.  Here  's  one,  first  thing. " 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


Into  the  livery-stable  he  entered  so  heavily  that  he 
seemed  to  fall  in.  His  cheap  straw  hat  was  pushed 
back  from  his  head ;  he  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  were 
too  bright;  his  hair,  which  was  red  and  coarse,  lay 
matted  on  his  forehead. 

"I  want  a  team,"  he  began,  on  a  high,  sharp  key. 
"I  've  got  to  get  to  Gloucester.  The  train  's  gone." 

A  sleepy  groom,  who  scowled  at  him,  turned  on  a 
suspicious  heel.  "  You  're  drunk.  It 's  fourteen  miles. 
It  would  cost  you  more  'n  you  're  worth. " 

"I've  got  a  little  boy,"  repeated  the  lame  man. 
"He's  dying." 

The  groom  wheeled  back.  "That  so?  Why,  that's 
a  pity.  I  'd  like  to  'commodate  you.  See  ?  I  'm  here 
alone  —  see  ?  I  darsen't  go  so  far  without  orders. 
Boss  is  home  and  abed. " 

"He  got  hurt  in  a  naccident,"  pleaded  the  father. 
"I  come  from  up  to  Con  way.  I  went  to  bury  my 
uncle.  They  sent  me  a  telegraph  about  my  little 
boy.  I  ain't  drunk.  They  sent  me  the  telegraph. 
I  've  got  to  get  home." 

"I  '11  let  you  sleep  here  along  of  me, "  suggested  the 
groom,  "but  I  darsen't  leave.  I  'm  responsible  to  the 
boss.  There  's  other  places  you  might  get  one.  I  '11 
show  you.  See?  I  'd  try  'em  all  if  I  was  you. " 

But  again  the  man  was  gone. 

By  the  time  that  he  had  found  another  stable  his 
manner  had  changed;  he  had  become  deprecating, 

116 


A  CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


servile.  He  entreated,  he  trembled;  he  flung  his 
emergency  at  the  feet  of  the  watchman ;  he  reiterated 
his  phrase :- 

"I  've  got  a  little  boy,  if  you  please.  He  's  dying. 
I  Ve  got  to  get  to  Gloucester  -  -  I  live  in  Squam." 

"I  don't  like  to  refuse  you,"  protested  the  night- 
watchman,  "but  two  of  my  horses  are  lame,  and  one 
is  plumb  used  up  carrying  summer  folks.  I  'm  dread 
ful  short.  I  have  n't  a  team  to  my  name  I  could  put 
on  the  road  to  Gloucester.  It's  --why,  to  Squam 
it 's  seventeen  miles  —  thirty-four  the  round  trip.  It 
would  cost  you  - 

"I  '11  pay!"  cried  the  lame  man;  "I  '11  pay.  I  ain't 
beggin'." 

"I  'm  sorry  I  haven't  got  a  horse,"  apologized  the 
watchman.  "It  would  cost  you  ten  dollars  if  I  had. 
But  I  hain't." 

"Ten  dollars?"  The  traveler  echoed  the  words 
stupidly. 

"I'm  sorry;  fact,  I  am,"  urged  the  watchman. 
"Won't  you  set  V  rest  a  spell?" 

But  the  visitor  had  vanished  from  the  office. 

Twenty  minutes  after,  the  doorbell  of  a  home  in 
the  old  residence  portion  of  the  town  rang  violently 
and  pealed  through  the  sleeping  house. 

It  was  a  comfortable,  not  a  new-fashioned,  house, 
sometimes  leased  to  summer  citizens,  and  modernized 
in  a  measure  for  their  convenience;  one  of  the  few  of 

117 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


its  kind  within  reach  of  the  station,  and  by  no  means 
near. 

When  the  master  of  the  family  had  turned  on  all 
the  burglar  electricity  and  could  get  the  screen  up, 
he  put  his  head  out  of  the  window,  and  so  perceived 
on  his  doorstep  a  huddled  figure  with  a  white,  up 
lifted  face. 

A  shaking  voice  came  up:  — 

"  Sir  ?  Be  you  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,"  went  down  the  quiet  reply.  "But  I 
can't  remember  that  I  was  ever  asked  that  question 
at  this  time  of  morning  before. " 

"Be  you  a  Christian?"  insisted  the  voice  from 
below. 

"Sometimes  —  perhaps,"  went  down  the  voice 
from  above. 

The  voice  from  below  came  up:  "Sir!  Sir!  I  'm  in 
great  trouble.  For  the  love  of  Christ,  sir,  come  down, 
quick!" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  the  voice  from  above. 

The  man  stood  quite  still  when  the  great  bolts  of 
the  door  shot  through  their  grooves.  Against  a  back 
ground  of  electric  brilliance  he  saw  a  gentleman  in 
pajamas  and  bath-robe,  with  slippers  as  soft  as  a 
lady's  on  his  white  feet.  The  face  of  the  gentleman 
was  somewhat  fixed  and  guarded;  his  features 
were  carefully  cut,  behind  their  heavy  coat  of  seaside 
tan. 

118 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


"Well,"  he  said,  "that  was  a  pretty  solemn  adjura 
tion.  What  is  it?" 

"I  want  to  get  a  team,"  stammered  the  figure  on 
the  steps.  Suddenly,  somehow,  his  courage  had  be 
gun  to  falter.  He  felt  the  enormity  of  his  intrusion. 
He  came  up  against  the  mystery  of  social  distinctions; 
his  great  human  emergency  seemed  to  be  distanced 
by  the  little  thing  men  call  difference  of  class. 

"You  want  —  to  get  --a  team?"  repeated  the 
gentleman;  he  spoke  slowly,  without  irritation. 
"You  have  made  a  mistake.  This  is  not  a  livery- 
stable." 

"Livery-stable!"  cried  the  intruder,  with  a  swift 
and  painful  passion.  "I've  tried  three!  Fust  one 
had  n't  any  boss.  Next  one  had  n't  any  hoss.  It  was 
ten  dollars  if  he  had.  Last  one  wanted  'leven  dollars, 
pay  in  advance.  I  've  got  four  dollars  'n'  sixteen  cents 
in  my  pocket.  I  've  been  up  to  Conway  to  bury  my 
uncle.  My  folks  sent  me  a  telegraph.  My  little  boy 
—  he  's  had  a  naccident.  My  train  was  late.  I  've 
got  to  get  to  Gloucester,  sir.  So  I  thought, "  added  the 
traveler,  simply,  "I  'd  ask  one  the  neighbors.  Neigh 
bors  is  most  gener'lly  kind.  Up  our  way  they  be. 
Sir  —  could  you  let  me  have  a  team  to  see  my  little 
boy  before  —  in  case  —  he  dies?" 

"Come  inside  a  minute,"  replied  the  gentleman. 

The  words,  which  had  begun  shortly,  ended  softly. 
"Perfectly  sober,"  he  thought.  His  fingers  stole  to 

119 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


the  button  of  a  bell  as  the  stranger  stepped  into  the 
hall. 

"Yes  —  I  '11  send  you  over.  What 's  your  name ? " 

"Dryver,  sir.   Jacob  Dryver." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Squam." 

"Annisquam?  That  is  several  miles  beyond  Glou 
cester.  Your  trouble  is  too  swift  for  horses.  I  have 
rung  for  my  chauffeur.  I  '11  send  you  in  the  automo 
bile.  Be  so  good  as  to  step  around  to  the  stables,  Mr. 
Dryver.  I  '11  join  you  outside. " 

Now  the  voice  of  a  sleepy  child  could  be  heard 
overhead;  it  seemed  to  be  trying  to  say,  "Popper! 
Popper!"  A  woman's  figure  drifted  to  the  top  of  the 
padded  stairs.  The  intruder  caught  a  gleam  of  delicate 
white  drapery  floating  with  laces,  closely  gathered  at 
the  throat,  and  held  with  one  ringed  hand  —  as  if 
hastily  thrown  on.  The  door  shut,  and  the  bolts 
shot  again.  Jacob  Dryver  felt  that  he  was  at  once 
trusted  and  distrusted;  he  could  not  have  said  why 
he  did  not  go  to  the  stables,  but  sat  down  on  the 
broad  granite  steps.  His  knees  hung  apart ;  his  el 
bows  dropped  to  them;  his  face  fell  into  his  hands. 

The   child   above   continued   to   call:    "Popper! 
Popper!"   Then  the  little  voice  trailed  away. 

"It 's  smaller  'n  Batty, "  Jacob  said. 

When  he  lifted  his  head  from  his  hands,  up  the 
curving  avenue  a  steam-carriage  was  sweeping  upon 

1 20 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


him.  Its  acetylene  lanterns  blazed  like  the  eyes  of 
some  prehistoric  thing;  but  this  simple  fellow  knew 
nothing  about  prehistoric  things.  The  lanterns  re 
minded  him  of  the  living  creatures  that  Ezekiel  saw. 
Such  imagination  as  he  had  was  Biblically  trained, 
and  leaped  from  Ezekiel  to  Elijah  easily. 

"It's  a  chariot  of  fire,"  thought  Jacob  Dryver, 
"comhV  for  to  carry  me  home." 

As  he  gathered  himself  and  went  to  meet  the  mir 
acle,  a  dark  figure,  encased  in  rubber  armor  from  foot 
to  head,  brought  the  carriage  to  a  swift  and  artistic 
stop. 

"Are  you  the  shove-her?"  asked  Jacob,  timidly. 

"I  am  not  the  shove-her,"  replied  the  figure  at  the 
brake,  "and  I  hope  I  sha'n't  have  to  be.  I  am  Mr. 
Chester.  My  chauffeur  is  not  at  home,  I  find.  I  shall 
drive  you  to  Annisquam  myself." 

"You're  takin'  some  trouble,  sir,"  said  Jacob, 
slowly.  His  head  reeled.  He  felt  that  he  was  growing 
stupid  under  the  whirlwind  of  events.  He  went  down 
the  long  steps  like  a  lame  blind  man.  As  he  did  so, 
the  bolts  of  the  door  behind  him  leaped  back  again, 
and  the  lady  ran  down  and  slid  into  the  carriage. 
The  fog  glittered  on  the  laces  of  her  white  woolen 
garment.  Her  husband  thought  of  it  as  a  negligee; 
but  Jacob  called  it  a  wrapper.  She  was  a  dainty  lady, 
and  fair  to  look  upon;  her  hair  lay  in  long,  bright 
braids  upon  her  shoulders;  she  had  caught  up  an 

121 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


automobile  coat  and  cap,  which  she  flung  across  her 
arm.  Dryver  heard  her  say:  "I  shall  be  —  a  little 
anxious.  After  all,  you  know  nothing  about  him. 
May  n't  I  go?" 

"And  leave  Bert?  I  don't  think  I  would,  Mary. 
I  've  told  James  to  sit  up  and  watch.  Draw  the  big 
bolt  on  top  and  keep  the  lights  all  on.  If  I  have  good 
luck,  I  shall  be  back  in  less  than  two  hours.  Good -by, 
Mary  —  dear." 

The  last  word  lingered  with  the  caressing  accent 
which  only  long-tried  marriage  love  ever  puts  into  it. 
The  lips  of  the  two  met  silently,  and  drooping,  the  lady 
melted  away.  Jacob  Dryver  found  himself  in  the 
steam-carriage,  speeding  down  the  avenue  to  the  silent 
street.  He  looked  back  once  at  the  house.  Every  pane 
of  glass  was  blazing,  as  if  the  building  were  on  fire. 

"You  '11  find  it  colder  than  you  expect,"  observed 
Mr.  Chester.  "I  brought  along  Thomas's  coat.  Put 
it  on  —  and  hold  on.  Never  in  one  of  these  before, 
were  you?" 

"N-no,  sir,"  chattered  Jacob  Dryver.  "Thank 
you,  sir.  I  n-never  was." 

He  clung  to  the  side  of  the  seat  desperately.  In 
fact,  he  was  very  much  frightened.  But  he  would 
have  gone  under  the  heavy  wheels  before  he  would 
have  owned  it.  Spinning  through  the  deserted  Beverly 
streets,  the  carriage  took  what  seemed  to  him  a 
startling  pace. 

122 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


"I  'm  going  slowly  till  we  get  out  of  town,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Chester.  "Once  on  the  Manchester 
road,  I  '11  let  her  out  a  bit." 

Jacob  made  no  reply.  What  had  seemed  to  be  fog 
drenched  and  drowned  him  now  like  driving  rain. 
There  had  been  no  wind,  but  now  the  powers  and 
principalities  of  the  air  were  let  loose.  He  gasped  for 
breath,  which  was  driven  down  his  throat.  That 
made  him  think  of  Batty,  whom  for  the  moment  he 
had  actually  forgotten.  When  people  died  —  they 
could  not  -  -  Had  Batty  —  by  this  time  —  it  was  so 
long  —  should  he  find  that  Batty  — 

"What  ails  your  boy?"  asked  the  half -invisible 
figure  from  the  depths  of  its  rubber  armor. 

"I  had  a  telegraph,"  said  Jacob,  monotonously. 
"I  never  was  away  from  home  so  far  —  I  ain't  used 
to  travelin'.  I  supposed  the  train  would  wait  for  the 
accident.  The  telegraph  said  he  was  hurt  bad.  I  got 
it  just  as  the  fun'ril  was  leavin'  the  house.  I  had  to 
quit  it,  corpse  V  all  —  for  Batty.  I  ran  all  the  way 
to  the  depot.  I  just  got  aboard,  and  here  I  be  be 
calmed  all  night  —  and  there  is  Batty.  —  His  name  is 
Batwing,"  added  the  father.  "He  was  named  after 
the  uncle  I  went  to  bury.  But  we  call  him  Batty. " 

"Any  more  children?"  inquired  Mr.  Chester,  in  the 
cultivated,  compassionate  voice  which  at  once  at 
tracted  and  estranged  the  breaking  heart  of  Jacob 
Dryver. 

123 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


"We  have  n't  only  Batty,  sir, "  he  choked. 

The  hand  on  the  lever  tightened;  the  throttle  opened; 
the  dark  figure  in  the  rubber  coat  bent  and  its  muscles 
turned  to  iron.  The  carriage  began  to  rock  and  fly. 
It  was  now  whirling  out  upon  the  silent,  sleeping  road 
that  goes  by  the  great  houses  of  the  North  Shore. 

"I  '11  let  her  out  a  little, "  said  Mr.  Chester,  quietly. 
"  Don't  worry.  We  '11  get  there  before  you  know  it. " 

The  carriage  took  on  a  considerable  pace.  Jacob's 
best  straw  hat  flew  off;  but  he  did  not  mention  it.  His 
red  hair  stood  endwise,  all  ways,  on  his  head ;  his  eyes 
started;  his  hands  gripped  —  one  at  the  rail,  one  at 
the  knee  of  his  companion.  The  wind  raised  by  the 
motion  of  the  car  became  a  gale,  and  forced  itself  into 
his  lungs.  Jacob  gasped,  — 

"It 's  —  on  account  —  of  Batty." 

"I  have  a  little  boy  of  my  own,"  observed  Mr. 
Chester.  Plainly  thinking  to  divert  the  attention  of 
the  anguished  father,  he  continued:  "He  had  an 
accident  this  summer  —  he  was  hurt  by  a  scythe;  he 
slipped  away  from  his  nurse.  He  was  pretty  badly 
hurt.  I  was  away  —  I  hurried  from  Bar  Harbor  to  get 
to  him.  I  think  I  know  how  you  feel. " 

"Did  you  have  a  telegraph,  sir?"  asked  Dryver, 
rousing  to  the  throb  of  the  common  human  pulse. 

"Yes,  there  was  a  telegram.  But  I  was  a  good 
while  getting  it.  I  understand  your  position." 

"Did  he  ever  get  over  it  —  your  little  boy?  Oh,  I 
124 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


see;  that  was  him  I  heard.   'Popper/  he  says,  - 
'  Popper. '" 

Above  the  whir  of  the  steam-carriage,  above  the 
chatter  of  the  exhaust,  above  the  voice  of  the  wind, 
the  sound  of  a  man's  muffled  groan  came  distinctly  to 
the  ear  that  was  fine  enough  to  hear  it. 

"Trust  me,"  said  Chester,  gently.  "I'll  get  you 
there.  I  '11  get  you  to  your  boy. " 

The  gentleman's  face  was  almost  as  white  now  as 
Jacob  Dryver's.  The  fog  glistened  upon  his  mustache 
and  made  him  look  a  gray-haired  man  as  he  emerged 
from  gulfs  of  darkness  and  shot  by  widely  scattered 
dim  street  lamps.  Both  men  had  acquired  something 
of  the  same  expression  —  the  rude  face  and  the  fin 
ished  one;  both  wore  the  solemn,  elemental  look  of 
fatherhood.  The  heart  of  one  repeated  piteously,  - 

"It's  Batty." 

But  the  other  thought,  "What  if  it  were  Bert?" 

"I  '11  let  her  out  a  little  more,"  repeated  Chester. 
The  carriage  throbbed  and  rocked  to  the  words. 

"How  do  you  like  my  machine?"  he  added,  in  a 
comfortable  voice.  He  felt  that  the  mercury  of  emo 
tion  had  mounted  too  far.  "Mrs.  Chester  has  named 
her,"  he  proceeded.  "We  call  her  Aurora." 

"Hey?" 

"We  've  named  the  machine  Aurora,  I  said." 

l" Roarer,'  sir?" 

"Oh,  well.   That  will  do  — ' Roarer,'  if  you  like. 
125 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


That  is  n't  bad.  It 's  an  improvement,  perhaps.  By 
the  way,  how  did  you  happen  on  my  place  to-night  ? 
There  are  a  good  many  nearer  the  station;  you  had 
quite  a  walk. " 

"I  see  a  little  pair  o'  reins  an'  bells  in  the  grass 
alongside  —  such  as  little  boys  play  horse  with.  We 
had  one  once  for  Batty,  sir. " 

"Ah!  Was  that  it  ?  What 's  your  business,  Dryver  ? 
You  have  n't  told  me.  Do  you  fish  ?" 

"Winters,  I  make  paving-stones.  Summers,  I  raise 
vegetables,"  replied  Jacob  Dryver.  "I  'm  a  kind  of  a 
quarry-farmer.  My  woman  she  plants  flowers  for  the 
summer  folks,  and  Batty  bunches  'em  up  and  delivers 
'em.  Batty  — he  — God!  My  God!  Mebbe  there 
ain't  any  Batty  — " 

The  sentence  broke.  In  truth,  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  find  its  remnants  in  the  sudden  onset  of  sound 
made  by  the  motion  of  the  machine. 

The  car  was  freed  now  to  the  limit  of  her  mighty 
strength.  She  took  great  leaps  like  those  of  a  living 
heart  that  is  over-excited.  Powerfully,  perfectly,  with 
out  let  or  hindrance,  without  flaw  or  accident,  the 
chariot  of  fire  bounded  through  the  night.  A  trail  of 
steam  like  the  tail  of  a  comet  followed  her.  The  dark 
scenery  of  the  guarded  shore  flew  by;  Montserrat  was 
behind;  Prides  was  gone;  the  Farms  blew  past. 

They  were  now  well  out  upon  the  beautiful,  silent 
Manchester  road,  where  the  woods,  solemn  at  noon- 

126 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


day,  are  something  else  than  that  at  dead  of  night. 
The  steam-carriage,  flying  through  them,  encountered 
no  answering  sign  of  life.  Both  men  had  ceased  to 
speak.  Awe  fell  upon  them,  as  if  in  the  presence  of 
more  than  natural  things.  Once  it  seemed  to  Dryver 
as  if  he  saw  a  boy  running  beside  the  machine  —  a 
little  fellow,  white,  like  a  spirit,  and,  like  a  spirit, 
silent.  Chester's  hands  had  stiffened  to  the  throttle; 
his  face  had  the  stern  rigidity  of  those  on  whom  life 
or  human  souls  absolutely  depend.  Neither  man 
spoke  now  aloud.  To  himself  Jacob  Dryver  repeated : 

"It 's  Batty.   It 's  my  Batty. " 

And  Hurlburt  Chester  thought,  "What  if  it  were 
Bert?" 

Now  the  great  arms  of  the  sea  began  to  open  visibly 
before  them.  The  fog  on  their  lips  grew  salter,  and 
they  seemed  to  have  entered  the  Cave  of  the  Winds. 
Slender  beach  and  sturdy  headland  slid  by.  West 
Manchester,  Manchester,  Magnolia,  rushed  past. 
In  the  Magnolia  woods  they  lost  the  sea  again;  but 
the  bell-buoy  called  from  Norman's  Woe,  and  they 
could  hear  the  moan  of  the  whistling-buoy  off  Eastern 
Point.  In  the  Cape  Ann  Light  the  fog-bell  was 
tolling. 

At  the  pace  which  the  car  was  taking  there  was  an 
element  of  danger  in  the  situation  which  Jacob 
Dryver  could  not  measure,  since  he  feared  safety 
ignorantly,  and  met  peril  with  composure.  Chester 

127 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


reduced  the  speed  a  little,  and  yet  a  little  more,  but 
pushed  on  steadily.  Once  Jacob  spoke. 

"  I  '11  bet  your  shove-her  could  n't  drive  like  you  do," 
he  said  proudly. 

Fresh  Water  Cove  slipped  by;  Old  Stage  Fort  was 
behind ;  —  the  Aurora  bumped  over  the  pavement  of 
the  Cut,  and  reeled  through  the  rough  and  narrow 
streets  of  Gloucester.  He  of  Beverly  was  familiar 
with  the  route,  and  asked  no  questions.  The  car, 
now  tangled  among  electric  tracks,  swung  around 
the  angle  from  Main  Street  carefully,  jarred  across  the 
railroad,  and  took  the  winding,  dim  road  to  Annis- 
quam. 

Bay  View  flew  behind  —  the  bridge  —  the  village  — 
the  pretty  arcade  known  as  Squam  Willows.  The  car 
riage  dashed  into  it  and  out  of  it  as  if  it  were  a  tunnel. 
Then  Dryver  gripped  the  other's  arm  and,  without  a 
word,  pointed. 

The  car  followed  the  guidance  of  his  shaking 
finger,  and,  like  a  conscious  creature,  swung  to  a 
startling  stop. 

There  were  lights  in  the  quarryman's  cottage,  and 
shadows  stirred  against  drawn  shades.  Jacob  Dryver 
tumbled  out  and  ran.  He  did  not  speak,  nor  by  a  ges 
ture  thank  his  Beverly  "neighbor."  Chester  slowly 
unbuttoned  his  rubber  coat  and  got  at  his  watch.  The 
Aurora  had  covered  the  distance  —  in  dark  and  fog, 
over  seventeen  miles  —  in  fifty-six  minutes.  Now 

128 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


Jacob,  dashing  in,  had  left  the  door  open,  and  Chester, 
as  he  put  his  watch  back  into  its  pocket,  heard  that 
which  sent  the  blood  driving  through  his  arteries  as 
the  power  had  driven  the  pumps  of  the  car.  The 
sound  that  he  heard  was  the  fretful  moan  of  a  hurt 
child. 

As  he  had  admitted,  he  was  a  Christian  —  some 
times;  and  he  said,  "Oh,  thank  God!  "  with  all  his 
generous  heart.  Indeed,  as  he  did  so,  he  took  off  his 
heavy  cap  and  bared  his  head. 

Then  he  heard  the  sobbing  of  a  shaken  man  close 
beside  him. 

"Sir!  Oh,  sir!  The  God  of  Everlastin'  bless  you, 
sir.  Won't  you  come  and  look  at  him?  " 

Batty  lay  quietly;  he  had  put  his  little  fingers  in  his 
father's  hand;  he  did  not  notice  the  stranger.  The 
boy's  mother,  painfully  poised  on  one  elbow  in  the 
position  that  mothers  take  when  they  watch  sick 
children,  lay  upon  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  She  was 
a  large  woman,  with  a  plain,  good  face.  She  had  on  a 
polka-dotted,  blue  cotton  wrapper,  which  nobody 
called  a  negligee.  Her  mute,  maternal  eyes  went  to 
the  face  of  the  visitor,  and  reverted  to  the  child. 

There  was  a  physician  in  the  room  —  a  very  young, 
to  the  trained  eye  an  inexperienced,  man.  In  fact,  the 
medical  situation  was  unpromising  and  complicated. 
It  took  Chester  but  a  few  moments  to  gauge  it,  and  to 

129 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


perceive  that  his  mission  to  this  afflicted  household 
had  not  ended  with  a  lost  night's  sleep  and  an  auto 
mobile  record. 

The  local  doctor,  it  seemed,  was  away  from  home 
when  Batty's  accident  befell;  the  Gloucester  surgeon 
was  ill;  some  one  had  proposed  the  hospital,  but  the 
mother  had  the  prejudices  of  her  class.  A  neighbor 
had  suggested  this  young  man  —  a  newcomer  to  the 
town  —  one  of  the  flotsam  practitioners  who  drift  and 
disappear.  Recommended  upon  the  ground  that  he 
had  successfully  prescribed  headache  pills  to  a  Swedish 
cook,  this  stranger  had  received  into  his  unskilled 
hands  the  emergency  of  a  dangerously  wounded  lad. 
The  accident,  in  fact,  was  more  serious  than  Chester 
had  supposed.  He  had  now  been  told  that  the  child 
was  crushed  by  a  carriage  steaming  through  Annis- 
quam  Willows  the  day  before. 

The  boy,  it  was  plain,  was  sorely  hurt,  and  igno 
rant  suffering  lay  at  the  mercy  of  ignorant  treatment, 
in  the  hopeless  and  helpless  subjection  to  medical 
etiquette  which  costs  so  many  lives. 

"Dryver,"  said  Chester,  quietly,  "you  need  a  sur 
geon  here  at  once.  Your  physician  is  quite  willing  to 
consult  with  any  one  you  may  call."  He  shot  one 
stern  glance  at  the  young  doctor,  who  quavered  a 
frightened  assent.  "I  know  a  distinguished  surgeon 
-  he  is  a  friend  of  mine ;  it  was  he  who  saved  my  boy 
in  that  accident  I  told  you  of,  this  summer.  He  is  not 

130 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


far  away;  he  is  at  a  hotel  on  Eastern  Point.  I  can  have 
him  here  in  twenty  —  well,  say  twenty-five  minutes. 
Of  course  we  must  wait  for  him  to  dress." 

The  woman  raised  her  head  and  stared  upon  the 
gentleman.  One  swift,  brilliant  gleam  shot  from  her 
heavy  eyes.  She  had  read  of  angels  in  the  Bible.  She 
had  noticed,  indeed,  that  they  were  men  angels.  But 
she  had  never  heard  of  one  in  a  rubber  touring-coat, 
drenched  from  head  to  foot  with  fog,  spattered  from 
foot  to  head  with  mud,  and  with  a  wedding-ring  upon 
his  fine  hand. 

Jacob  Dryver  began:  "Sir!  The  God  of  Ever- 
lastin'  — "  but  he  sobbed  so  that  he  could  not  finish 
what  he  would  have  said.  So  Chester  went  out  and 
watered  the  Aurora,  opened  the  throttle,  and  started 
off  again,  and  dashed  through  the  rude  streets  of 
Gloucester  to  her  summer  shore. 

Dawn  was  rose-gray  over  Eastern  Point,  and  the 
tide  had  turned  upon  the  harbor,  when  the  "Roarer" 
curved  up  quietly  to  the  piazza  of  the  hotel. 

It  was  gray-rose  upon  Annisquam,  and  the  tide 
was  rising  up  the  river,  when  the  great  surgeon  went 
into  the  little  place  where  the  lad  lay  fighting  for  his 
mangled  life.  There  had  been  some  delay  in  rousing 
the  sleeper  —  it  was  a  trip  of  six  rough  miles  twice 
taken  —  and  it  was  thirty-five  minutes  before  his 
"merciless  merciful"  hands  went  to  work  upon  the 
mortal  need  of  the  boy. 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


The  child  had  been  crushed  across  the  hips  and 
body,  and  only  an  experienced  or  only  an  eminent 
skill  could  have  saved  the  little  fellow. 

/ 

In  the  blossoming  day  Jacob  Dryver  limped  out 

and  stood  in  the  front  yard  among  his  wife's  flowers 
that  Batty  "bunched  up"  and  sold  to  summer  people. 
He  could  not  perceive  the  scent  of  the  flowers  —  only 
that  of  the  ether.  His  big  boot  caught  in  a  sweet-pea 
vine  and  tore  it.  One  of  the  famous  carmine  dahlias 
of  Cape  Ann  seemed  to  turn  its  large  face  and  gaze 
at  him. 

An  old  neighbor  —  a  cross-eyed  lobsterer,  going  to 
his  traps  —  came  by,  cast  a  shrewd  look,  and  asked 
how  the  boy  was.  Jacob  did  not  reply  to  the  lob 
sterer;  he  lifted  his  wet  eyes  to  the  sky;  then  they  fell 
to  a  bed  of  blazing  nasturtiums,  which  seemed  to 
smoke  before  them.  His  lips  tried  to  form  the  words 
which  close  like  a  strangling  hand  upon  the  throat  of 
the  poor  in  all  the  emergencies  of  life.  Till  he  has 
answered  this  question,  a  poor  man  may  not  love  a 
woman  or  rear  a  child;  he  may  not  bury  his  dead  or 
save  his  living. 

"What  will  it  cost?"  asked  Jacob  Dryver.  He 
looked  piteously  at  the  great  surgeon,  whose  lips 
parted  to  speak.  But  Hurlburt  Chester  raised  an 
imperious  hand. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  my  affair." 
132 


A  CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


It  was  broad,  bright  day  when  the  Aurora  came 
whirring  home.  Chester  nodded  to  his  wife  at  the 
window,  but  went  directly  to  the  stables.  It  was  a 
little  longer  than  she  expected  before  he  returned. 
She  waited  at  the  head  of  the  stairs;  then  hurried 
half-way  down  to  meet  him.  Her  white  robe  was  un- 
girdled  and  flowing;  it  fell  apart  —  the  laces  above 
from  the  laces  below,  —  and  the  tired  man's  kiss  fell 
upon  her  soft  throat. 

She  was  naturally  a  worrier  in  a  sweet-natured  way, 
but  he  had  always  been  patient  with  her  little  weak 
ness;  some  men  are,  with  anxious  women. 

"No,"  he  smiled,  but  rather  feebly;  "you've  missed 
it  again.  The  boy  is  saved.  St.  Glair's  got  hold  of 
him.  I  '11  talk  presently,  Mary,  —  not  just  now." 

In  fact,  he  would  say  no  more  till  he  had  bathed 
and  taken  food.  He  looked  so  exhausted  that  she 
brought  his  breakfast  to  his  bed,  serving  it  with  her 
own  hands,  and  asking  no  questions  at  all;  for,  al 
though  she  worried,  she  was  wise.  She  sent  for  the 
baby,  too,  —  a  big  baby,  three  years  old,  —  and 
Chester  enfolded  the  chin  of  the  child  in  his  slender 
brown  hand  silently. 

Then  he  said:  "Lock  the  door,  Mary.  I  've  some 
thing  to  tell  you." 

When  she  had  drawn  the  brass  bolt  and  returned, 
somewhat  pale  herself  with  wonder  and  alarm,  to  the 
side  of  the  bed,  her  husband  spoke  abruptly:  — 

133 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


"Mary,  you  've  got  to  know  it  —  may  as  well  have 
it  over.  I  found  this  pinned  on  the  stable  wall.  It 
was  the  Aurora  that  ran  over  the  —  that  —  that  poor 
little  fellow." 

His  hand  shook  as  he  laid  the  piece  of  paper  in  her 
own.  And  while  she  read  it  he  covered  his  face;  for 
he  was  greatly  overworn,  and  the  strain  which  he  had 
undergone  seemed  now  to  have  leaped  again  with  the 
spring  of  a  creature  that  one  supposes  one  has  left 
lifeless  behind. 

Mrs.  Chester  read  the  writing  and  laid  it  down. 
It  ran  like  this:  — 

"Mr.  Chester,  Sir,  Ime  goin  away  while  I  can.  It 
was  me  run  over  that  boy  while  you  was  in  town.  I 
took  Her  out  for  a  spin.  I  let  Her  out  some  racin  with 
another  one  in  the  Willows  an  he  got  under  Her 
someways.  I  see  it  in  the  papers  so  I  was  afraid  of 
manslorter.  Ime  awful  cut  up  about  it  so  Ime  goin  to 
lite  out  while  I  can. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

THOMAS." 

The  eyes  of  the  husband  and  wife  met  silently. 
She  was  the  first  to  speak. 
"Do  they  know?" 
Chester  shook  his  head. 
"You'll  tell  them,  of  course?" 
"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind." 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


The  baby  was  jabbering  loudly  on  the  bed  —  he 
was  very  noisy;  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  hear  what 
was  said. 

"I'm  sure  you  ought  to  tell  them!"  she  cried 
passionately. 

"Perhaps  so.     But  I  'd  like  to  think  it  over." 

A  subtle  terror  slid  over  her  face.  "What  can  they 
do  to  you  ?  I  don't  know  about  such  things.  Is  there 
any  —  law?" 

"Laws  enough  —  laws  in  plenty.  But  I'm  not 
answerable  for  the  crimes  of  my  chauffeur,  It 's  only 
a  question  of  damages." 

The  wife  of  the  rich  man  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Oh, 
if  it 's  nothing  but  money!" 

"Not  that  it  would  make  any  difference  if  they 
could  touch  me,"  he  continued,  with  a  proud  motion 
of  his  tired  head.  "It's  purely  a  question  of  feeling 
—  it 's  a  question  of  right  within  a  right,  Mary.  It 's 
to  do  what  is  really  kind  by  these  people  -  Why, 
Mary,  if  you  could  have  seen  it!  From  beginning  to 
end  it  was  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  wonderful 
thing.  Nothing  of  the  kind  ever  happened  to  me 
before.  Mary,  if  an  angel  from  the  throne  of  God  had 
done  it  —  they  could  n't  have  felt  —  they  could  n't 
have  treated  me  —  it  was  enough  to  make  a  fellow  a 
better  man  the  rest  of  his  days.  Why,  it  was  worth 
living  for,  I  tell  you!  .  .  .  And  now  to  let  them 
know  .  .  . " 

135 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


Hurlburt  Chester  was  very  tired,  as  we  say.  He 
choked,  and  hid  his  pale  face  in  his  pillow.  And  his 
wife  laid  hers  beside  it  and  cried  —  as  women  do  — 
without  pretending  that  she  did  n't.  But  the  baby 
laughed  aloud.  And  then  there  drove  through  the 
father's  mind  the  repeated  phrase  which  followed  the 
race  of  the  " Roarer"  all  the  way  from  Beverly  to 
Annjsquam :  — 

"What  if  it  were  Bert?" 

Chester's  head  whirled  yet  from  the  fatigue  and  jar 
of  the  trip,  and  the  words  seemed  to  take  leaps  through 
his  brain  as  the  car  leaped  when  she  was  at  the  top  of 
her  great  speed.  So  he  kissed  the  child,  and  dashed  a 
drop  from  his  cheek  quite  openly  —  since  only  Mary 
saw. 

A  constraint  unusual  to  their  candid  relations 
breathed  like  a  fog  between  the  husband  and  the  wife ; 
indeed,  it  did  not  lift  altogether  as  the  autumn  opened 
and  closed. 

Chester's  visits  to  Annisquam  (in  which  she  once 
or  twice  accompanied  him)  were  many  and  merciful; 
and  the  distinguished  surgeon  took  the  responsibility 
of  the  case  till  the  boy  was  quite  convalescent.  The 
lad  recovered  slowly,  but  St.  Clair  promised  that  the 
cure  would  be  complete. 

The  touching  gratitude  of  Jacob  Dryver  amounted 
to  an  idealization  such  as  the  comfortable,  undramatic 

136 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


life  of  Chester  had  never  experienced.  He  seemed  to 
swim  in  it  as  an  imaginative  person  dreams  of  swim 
ming  in  the  air,  tree-high  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd 
on  the  earth.  The  situation  had  become  to  him  a 
fine  intoxicant,  —  but  it  had  its  reactions,  as  intoxi 
cants  must. 

September  and  October  burned  to  ashes  upon  the 
North  Shore.  Fire  of  maple,  flash  of  sumac,  torch  of 
elder,  flare  of  ivy,  faded  into  brown  November,  and 
the  breakers  off  the  Beverly  coast  took  on  the  greens 
and  blues  of  north-wind  weather  below  the  line  of 
silver  surf. 

The  Chesters  closed  "their  own  hired  house"  and 
moved  to  town.  The  Aurora  remained  in  her  stable, 
nor  had  she  left  it  since  the  morning  when  she  came 
wearily  back  from  Annisquam. 

His  wife  had  noticed,  but  had  not  seemed  to  notice, 
that  Chester  rode  no  more  that  fall.  She  noted  too, 
but  did  not  seem  to  note,  that  he  continued  his  visits 
to  the  injured  lad  after  they  had  returned  to  the  city. 

On  all  the  great  holidays  he  made  a  point  of  going 
down  —  Thanksgiving,  Christmas,  and  New-Year's 
day.  Mrs.  Chester  had  wished  to  duplicate  for  the 
quarryman's  boy  the  Christmas  gifts  of  her  own  child 
(such  had  been  her  pretty  fancy),  but  Batty  was  quite 
a  lad  —  ten  years  old ;  and  Bert,  like  a  spoiled  collie, 
was  yet  a  baby,  and  likely  to  remain  so  for  some  time 
to  come.  So  the  mother  contented  herself,  perforce, 

137 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


with  less  intimate  remembrances.  Once,  when  she 
had  packed  a  box  of  miracles  —  toys  and  books, 
clothes  and  candy  —  she  thrust  it  from  her  with  a 
cry:  "They  would  never  touch  these  —  if  they  knew! 
Hurlburt!  Hurlburt!  don't  you  think  they  ought  to 
know?" 

"Do  what  you  think  best,  Mary,"  he  said  wearily. 
"  I  have  never  been  able  to  decide  that  question.  But 
you  are  free  to  do  so  if  you  prefer." 

He  regarded  her  with  an  expression  that  went  to 
her  heart.  She  flung  herself  into  his  arms  and  tried 
to  kiss  it  away. 

Now  Mary  Chester,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  worrier, 
and  the  worrier  never  lets  a  subject  go.  As  the  winter 
set  in,  her  mind  closed  about  the  matter  which  had 
troubled  her,  and  it  began  to  become  unbearable,  like 
a  foreign  substance  in  the  flesh. 

On  a  January  afternoon  —  it  was  one  of  those  dark 
days  when  the  souls  of  people  cloud  over  —  she  flung 
on  her  furs,  and  leaving  a  penciled  line  to  her  husband 
saying  what  she  had  done,  she  took  the  train  to 
Gloucester  and  a  dreary  electric  car  to  Annisquam. 

The  flowers  in  the  front  yard  were  knee-deep  in 
snow;  but  Batty  sat  in  the  window  busy  with  a  Sor 
rento  woodsaw  of  her  providing.  He  laughed  outright 
when  he  saw  her,  and  his  mother  flung  open  the  door 
as  if  she  had  flung  open  her  heart. 

"Land!"  she  cried.   "In  all  this  snow!" 
138 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


She  finished  tying  a  fresh  white  apron  over  her 
polka-dotted  blue  wrapper,  and  joyously  led  the 
lady  in. 

Batty  was  a  freckled  little  fellow,  with  red  hair  like 
his  father's ;  he  had  the  pretty  imperiousness  of  a  sick 
and  only  child  who  has  by  all  the  sorceries  contrived 
to  escape  petulance.  When  he  had  greeted  the  visitor, 
he  ran  back  to  his  jig-saw.  He  was  carving  camwood, 
which  stained  his  fingers  crimson. 

"I  want  to  see  you  —  alone,"  began  Mrs.  Chester, 
nervously.  It  had  been  one  of  Chester's  pleasures  to 
warm  the  entire  house  for  the  convalescent  lad,  and 
big  coal  fires  were  purring  in  Batty 's  bedroom  and  in 
the  ten -foot  "parlor,"  whither  his  mother  conducted 
her  guest.  The  doors  were  left  open.  The  scent  of 
the  camwood  came  across,  pungent  and  sickening. 
The  fret  of  the  jig-saw  went  on  steadily. 

"He's  makin'  a  paper-cutter  —  for  Mr.  Chester," 
observed  Batty 's  mother.  "He  made  a  watch-case 
last  week  —  for  Mr.  Chester." 

Mary  Chester  paled,  and  she  plunged  at  once:- 

" There's  something  I've  come  to  tell — I've  got  to 
tell  you.  I  can't  keep  it  to  ourselves  any  longer.  I 
have  come  to  tell  you  how  it  happened  —  that  Batty 
—  We  thought  you  'd  rather  not  know  - 

"Lord!  my  dear,"  said  the  quarryman's  wife, 
"we  've  known  it  all  the  while." 

The  visitor's  head  swam.  She  laid  it  down  upon 
i39 


A   CHARIOT   OF   FIRE 


her  gloved  hands  on  Mrs.  Dryver's  centre-table. 
This  had  a  marble  top,  and  felt  as  the  quarries  look 
in  winter  on  Cape  Ann.  What  were  tears  that  they 
should  warm  it?  The  sound  of  the  jig-saw  grew 
uneven  and  stopped. 

"Hush!"  said  the  boy's  mother.  "Batty  don't 
know;  he  's  the  only  one  that  don't." 

She  tiptoed  and  shut  the  door. 

"You  never  see  Peter  Trawl,  did  you?  He  's  a 
neighbor  —  cross-eyed  —  sells  lobsters  —  well,  it  was 
him  picked  Batty  up  to  the  Willows  that  day.  So  he 
seen  the  number  runnin'  away,  an'  so  he  told.  We  've 
known  it  from  fust  to  last,  my  dear." 

"And  never  spoke!"  said  Mary  Chester.  "And 
never  spoke!" 

"What's  the  use  of  jabberin'?"  asked  Batty's 
mother.  "We  thought  Mr.  Chester  'd  feel  so  bad," 
she  added.  "We  thought  he  did  n't  know." 

The  worrier  began  to  laugh,  then  cry;  first  this, 
then  that;  for  her  nerves  gave  way  beneath  her.  She 
sat  humbly  in  her  rich  furs  before  the  quarryman's 
wife.  She  felt  that  these  plain  people  had  outdone  her 
in  nobility,  as  they  had  rivaled  her  in  delicacy,  —  her, 
and  Hurlburt,  too. 

"Oh,  come  and  see  my  baby!"  she  cried.  It  was 
the  only  thing  that  occurred  to  her  to  say. 

Now  at  that  moment  Batty  gave  a  little  yelp  of 
ecstasy,  threw  down  his  jig-saw,  and  got  to  the  front 

140 


A   CHARIOT   OF  FIRE 


door.  His  father  was  there,  stamping  off  the  snow; 
and  the  lad's  idol,  his  ideal,  his  man  angel,  stood  upon 
the  threshold,  —  nervous,  for  an  angel,  and  with  an 
anxious  look. 

But  when  the  two  men  saw  the  women  crying 
together  upon  the  quarry-cold  centre-table,  they 
clasped  hands,  and  said  nothing  at  all. 


HIS  SOUL  TO   KEEP 

"HAS  the  carrier  come?" 

"Yes." 

"And  gone?" 

"Some  time  $go." 

"No  letters?" 

"  Only  a  few  bills,  or  receipts.  I  put  them  on  his 
desk."  ' 

"  Nothing  for  me  ?  You  are  sure  ?  " 

"Quite  sure." 

The  figure  on  the  bed  turned  its  face  to  the  wall. 
The  figure  in  the  cap  and  apron  dropped  upon  the 
patient  a  glance  more  professional  than  personal  — 
one  of  the  sort  which  drives  the  sick  to  a  mutiny  none 
the  less  pronounced  because  helpless  and  hopeless. 

There  were  moments  when  Mrs.  Glessner  could 
cheerfully  have  flung  boiling  hot  water  bags  at  Miss 
Peck,  not  without  the  spectral  wish  that  the  rubber 
might  burst.  There  were  others  when  she  regarded 
the  nurse  with  a  grateful  glow  that  could  almost 
be  called  affectionate,  and  checked  herself  in  the  act 
of  conversation  verging  on  the  confidential.  She 
vibrated  between  the  emotional  extremes  of  a  monot 
onous  but  well  cared  for  invalid  life. 

142 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


Now  the  face  upon  the  pillow  —  it  was  an  attractive 
face,  not  marred  by  any  of  the  corrosive  disorders  - 
flung  itself  over  suddenly,  and  a  pair  of  delicately 
rounded  arms  rose  out  of  lace  elbow-sleeves  and  shot 
straight  into  the  air  with  a  gesture  which  Miss  Peck 
knew  well. 

"Is  the  door  open ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Is  the  hall  door  open?  " 

"Yes." 

"Are  all  the  doors  open  so  we  could  hear  the 
telephone  ?  " 

"Every  one." 

"So  7  could  hear  it?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  help  it." 

"You  are  sure  there  has  not  been  any  message?  " 

"Perfectly  sure." 

"Would  you  mind  going  down  and  asking  the 
Central  if  we  have  missed  any  call  ?  " 

"I  will  go  as  soon  as  I  have  attended  to  a  few 
things." 

"Would  you  mind  going  now?" 

"I  suppose  not.  — No,  I  will  go." 

.     .     .  "There  wasn't  any  message,  was  there?" 

"Not  any." 

"Do  you  think  it  's  too  late  for  any,  to-night  ?  " 

"He  never  calls  up  after  ten  o'clock.   He  don't 
want  to  spoil  your  night." 

H3 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


"He  is  very  thoughtful  of  me,"  said  Mrs.  Glessner. 

The  nurse  made  no  reply. 

The  patient  watched  her  with  a  furtive  interest. 
Miss  Peck  was  a  small  person.  She  had  a  profile  like 
a  squirrel's;  her  mouth  was  kind  and  weak;  her  eyes 
were  bright  and  experienced.  She  had  the  shrill 
American  voice;  it  filed  the  ear  and  brain.  Miss 
Peck's  had  become  the  chief  society  of  a  naturally 
vivacious  but  sensitive,  now  too  sensitive,  woman. 
The  fatal  human  repugnance  to  solitude  fed,  however 
sparingly,  upon  the  nurse.  The  invalid  had  gone  so 
far  as  to  wish  that  she  could  love  Miss  Peck. 

Melicent  Glessner  had  not  yielded  easily  to  her  fate. 
In  fighting  phrase,  she  had  "died  hard."  Even  yet 
she  was  not  bedridden;  not  perhaps  so  much  from 
force  of  heroism  as  from  personal  fastidiousness.  She 
was  a  vigorous  hater  (good  lovers  are  apt  to  be),  and 
had  battled  with  her  doom  all  the  way  down,  abhor 
ring  the  evidences  of  descent  in  the  curving  lines  of 
strength.  She  loved  health,  youth,  beauty,  admira 
tion,  tenderness,  love;  she  had  known  them  all.  She 
liked  action,  eagerness,  social  attrition,  the  incidents 
of  the  hour;  the  natural  human  impulses  were  strong 
in  her;  she  craved  the  wine  of  joy,  and  used  to  think 
that  she  was  born  to  drink  it.  There  was  not  a  hypo 
chondriac  nerve  in  her;  she  had  rung  to  the  tuning- 
fork  of  hope  as  long  as  any  string  of  her  responded  to 
the  key.  She  was  not  particularly  patient,  and  did  her 

144 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


share  of  complaining  as  any  hearty,  undisciplined 
creature  will;  but  she  was  not  ill-natured,  nor  sour 
in  the  flavor.  She  was  not  what  we  call  a  religious 
woman,  although  she  had  been  taught,  when  she  was 
a  child,  to  respect  a  type  of  faith  which  in  maturity 
she  had  not  cultivated.  In  a  word,  she  was  no  saint; 
only  a  woman — a  very  woman — smitten  by  the  sword 
of  suffering  which  lays  the  soul  and  body  low.  She 
had  been  stabbed  through  and  through,  but  she  had 
not  perished.  For  years  she  had  cherished  a  pugna 
cious  instinct  of  recovery.  When  the  knowledge  of 
the  facts  was  made  known  to  her,  by  one  of  the  phy 
sicians  who  will  not  tell  professional  lies,  she  had 
fought  fiercely  with  the  truth,  and  then  accepted  it  as 
she  had  defied  it  —  altogether.  At  first  she  used  to 
speak  of  it  to  her  husband;  it  was  not  easy  not  to 
share  such  a  great  thing  with  some  human  creature 
who  loved  her;  but  she  had  long  since  given  that  up. 
It  was  her  first  lesson  in  the  grammer  of  self -con 
quest,  of  which  the  well  know  so  little  and  the  sick 
must  learn  so  much. 

"I  see  it  now.  It  was  a  kind  of  rudeness,"  she  said 
aloud  to  the  only  consciousness  that  she  could  address 
upon  so  intimate  a  topic.  This,  plainly,  was  not 
Miss  Peck's.  Then  what?  Had  the  atmosphere  in 
telligence?  The  rose  tint  on  the  four  walls  of  her 
silent  room  —  had  it  sentience  ?  Did  the  stars  hear, 
on  winter  nights  when  the  shade  was  lifted  for  them 

145 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


to  look  coldly  through  ?  Had  the  frosty  moon  a  soul  ? 
Did  the  brutal  wind  experience  sympathy?  Could 
the  picture  of  one's  dead  mother  smiling  underneath 
the  Leonardo's  Christ  above  the  mirror  answer  when 
one  cried  out?  By  degrees,  very  quietly  but  very 
plainly,  it  had  become  apparent  to  the  denied  woman 
that  something  answered,  —  not  always,  not  explicitly, 
but  sometimes,  and  in  some  way.  She  had  begun  to 
be  aware  of  a  soft  encroachment  upon  the  reserve  of 
her  loneliness;  a  movement  of  spirit  towards  her  own. 
She  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  call  it  an  interchange  of 
intelligence;  she  was  chiefly  conscious  of  it  as  a  deli 
cate  blender  of  feeling  blurring  the  outlines  of  her 
solitude. 

This,  in  Harris  Glessner's  necessary  and  altogether 
pardonable  absences  from  her,  was  mainly  unre 
lieved.  When  he  was  at  home  he  was  attentive  to  his 
wife,  whom  he  had  rapturously  loved,  and  whom  he 
still  cherished  when  he  could.  When  he  was  serving 
his  country  at  the  capital  his  opportunities  to  make 
poor  Mele's  lot  easier  to  bear  were,  of  course,  limited 
by  his  civic  obligations.  He  had  accepted  his  nomina 
tion  reluctantly;  she  had  urged  him,  and  her  physi 
cian  had  permitted  him  to  do  so.  Mele  was  young, 
and  might  live  for  twenty  years.  Glessner  purposed 
to  return  to  his  law  practice  in  a  year  or  so.  Meantime 
she  could  make  a  home  with  him  in  Washington  for 
the  winter.  But  she  shook  her  head. 

146 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


"We  tried  that  last  year.  How  long  did  I  stay? 
Six  weeks  ?  I  can't  undergo  another  earthquake  just 
now.  I  'm  not  quite  so  well  able."  This  was  so  ob 
viously  true  that  the  matter  had  dropped. 

"Try  it,"  she  had  said,  —  "try  it  for  one  session. 
If  I  find  that  I  take  it  hard  —  if  I  grow  worse  - 

"If  you  grow  worse,  you  sha'n't  have  to  take  it  at 
all,"  he  vowed  eagerly.  He  ran  home  as  often  as  he 
could ;  usually  every  week.  He  wrote.  He  telephoned. 
Between  committees  he  thought  of  her  a  good  deal. 
But  she  —  she  thought  of  him  all  the  time  and  in  all 
the  ways  that  a  deprived  and  lonely  and  idle  woman 
can  think  of  a  well  and  overworked  man. 

That,  in  a  sense,  was  the  worst  of  it  —  her  terrible 
power  of  concentration  upon  the  man  whom  she  had 
happened  to  love  and  marry.  This,  if  a  fault,  was  a 
wholly  feminine  one,  belonging  to  the  class  of  wifely 
traits  which  might  be  supposed  to  appeal  to  a  man, 
but  seldom  do.  At  the  beginning  of  her  illness  she 
had  followed  her  temperament  and  had  encroached 
upon  his  with  the  naivete  of  one  who  is  inexperienced 
in  suffering.  She  had  exacted  and  exhausted ;  she  had 
claimed  and  accepted.  She  had  fed  upon  his  sympathy 
and  had  assumed  his  presence ;  she  took  his  devotion— 
for  he  had  given  her  no  inconsiderable  amount  of 
it — as  a  matter  of  course,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before 
it  occurred  to  her  that  a  too  dependent  sick  woman 
may  bring  a  man  more  discipline  than  happiness. 

147 


HIS   SOUL  TO   KEEP 


Melicent  possessed  one  quality  which,  when  the 
eternal  two  enter  the  caves  of  disillusion,  is  more 
valuable  than  beauty,  charm,  or  intellect:  she  had 
good  sense.  This  enabled  her,  after  a  time,  to  read 
just  the  attitude  of  her  expectations.  Her  life  was  like 
her  electric  fan  —  whirring  feverishly,  now  at  a  lower, 
now  at  a  higher  pace,  but  always  fixed  to  its  base; 
never  getting  anywhere;  always  hearing  its  own  out 
cries,  by  which  it  worried  or  wearied  the  listener. 
Sometimes,  on  a  hot  August  night  when  the  current 
was  turned  on  at  the  power  house  afresh,  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  it  would  seem  to  her  as  if  her 
soul  must  rush  out  on  the  gusts  of  the  artificial  wind 
and  wander  through  space,  a  disconnected,  freed,  but 
unappeased  identity,  clamoring  for  what  it  could  not 
have,  obedient  as  machinery,  but  perhaps  —  who 
knew  ?  —  as  rebellious  at  the  secret  of  its  being.  She 
felt  a  curious  kinship  with  the  helpless  thing. 

Now  it  was  February,  and  the  heavy  fan  stood 
silent  upon  its  firm  shelf  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed. 
Melicent  glanced  at  it  compassionately. 

"You  cannot  even  complain,"  she  thought. 

She  had  experienced  several  years  of  captivity  be 
fore  it  came  to  her  knowledge  that  escape  from  hei 
fate  was  possible.  At  first  all  her  thoughts  swung 
towards  life.  She  expected  —  in  fact,  she  commanded 
-  recovery;  she  pushed  her  way  towards  all  the  reme 
dial  doors,  and  when  she  found  one  locked,  clamored 

148 


HIS   SOUL  TO   KEEP 


at  another.  Her  mind  dwelt  upon  health,  on  healing, 
on  salvation.  Afterwards,  as  the  long  disabled  do, 
she  rebounded,  and  hated  that  which  she  had  so 
passionately  and  vainly  sought.  She  weighed  her  lot 
and  flung  it  from  her  with  a  healthy  contempt  which 
no  well  person  is  sound  enough  to  understand. 

She  began  to  believe  that  she  wished  to  die.  She 
was  quite  sincere  in  this  conviction,  and  when  she 
learned  at  last  that  her  preference  might  be  gratified 
at  any  unknown  time  she  was  surprised  to  find  that 
the  news  gave  her  so  little  pleasure.  That  it  should 
be  in  the  nature  of  her  malady  to  bring  the  clockwork 
of  life  to  a  sharp  stop  without  warning  seemed,  some 
how,  bad  manners.  A  sheriff  or  an  executioner  had 
more  courtesy.  Death,  it  appeared,  felt  under  no 
obligations  to  show  any.  One  might  live  ten  years, 
or  as  many  minutes;  five  years,  or  five  seconds. 
What  of  it  ?  Now  that  her  heart's  desire  had  become 
practicable,  what  was  there  so  tragic  in  the  fact? 
She  was  perplexed  to  find  that  her  instinct  leaped 
against  her  conviction  in  the  direction  of  life.  Life ! 
Mere  life  —  plain,  commonplace  life  —  that  which  it 
had  been  so  easy  to  condemn  and  habitual  to  hate! 
Life  --hard  life,  denied,  disabled,  forbidden  of  hope, 
and  captive  to  that  dejection  which  only  the  long 
afflicted  can  distinguish  from  despair  —  cruel  life  - 
torn  by  the  beasts  of  suffering,  refused  the  angels  of 
healing  —  just  life! 

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HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


She  stood  astonished  before  the  windows  of  revela 
tion.  The  natural  vigor  of  her  soul  arose  and 
opened  them.  After  all,  in  face  of  everything,  did  she 
crave  the  despised  and  rejected  thing  that  she  had 
trampled  ?  Did  she  want  to  live  ? 

She  had  never  been  what  we  call  a  morbid  person, 
and  it  was  a  curious  fact  that  her  chief  danger  of  be 
coming  such  arrived  by  the  way  of  her  healthiest 
impulse.  In  the  very  splendid  sanity  of  her  revolt 
against  death  she  began  to  experience  such  a  fear  of 
it  as  she  had  never  known  or  imagined. 

It  was  not  so  much  to  the  incident  of  dying  that 
she  objected  —  this  had  for  a  long  time  presented 
itself  to  her  rather  as  a  circumstance  than  an  event  — 
but  to  the  prospective  abruptness  of  the  circumstance. 
She  had  dreamed  of  death  as  a  friend,  or  even  a  lover. 
Now  she  was  face  to  face  with  a  highwayman  or 
assassin.  Had  she  coughed  or  ached  her  life  away, 
decently  and  in  order,  by  a  conventional  process,  she 
was  sure  that  she  should  have  welcomed  a  release 
which  now  began  to  assume  all  the  hues  and  contours 
of  alarm. 

Melicent  was  by  nature  sincere,  and  she  acknow 
ledged  to  herself  that  the  ambush  of  death  occupied 
the  foreground  of  her  thoughts,  but  no  method  of 
avoiding  the  fact  occurred  to  her. 

None  at  least  occurred  to  her  by  any  philosophy 
of  life  that  she  had  known  —  or  Harris  Glessner, 

150 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


either,  for  that  matter.  They  had  both  been  people 
of  the  world  —  the  live,  visible  world,  throbbing  with 
pleasures  and  ambitions,  silken  with  luxuries,  clamor 
ous  of  joy,  vocal  with  self,  the  well  world  (until  she  had 
been  smitten),  and  this  is  to  say  the  supreme  word  of 
it.  They  had  been  the  children  of  good  fortune,  pam 
pered  and  arrogant  of  personal  and  mutual  happiness. 
Now  it  seemed  there  were  other  worlds.  Pain, 
denial,  desolation,  despair  — these  strange  planets, 
which  had  appeared  upon  her  unprepared  astronomy 
in  their  order,  preceded  the  gentle  movement  into 
its  appointed  place  of  that  other  which  is  called  the 
world  of  the  unseen.  Persons  who  lack  certain  of 
the  finer  forms  of  development  do  not  use  the  adjec 
tives  defining  them;  and  she,  who  had  no  religious 
life,  did  not  use  its  terms.  She  did  not  say  to  her 
self  that  the  star  which  was  slowly  revolving  into  the 
map  of  her  sad  skies  was  the  world  of  spiritual  things. 
She  did  not  call  it  so,  because  she  did  not  know 
enough  to  name  it.  Rather  she  felt  it  to  be  so 
before  she  knew  it.  For  a  time  she  rested  mistily 
in  her  feeling,  as  creation  rests  in  nebulosity  before 
form  occurs.  When  does  it  occur  ?  Did  chaos  recog 
nize  the  moment  when  construction  stood  apparent  ? 
Who,  though  he  watch  the  night  out,  can  capture 
the  instant  of  dawn  ?  Who  sees  when  the  breathing, 
blushing  torch  of  perfume  and  of  color  ceases  to  be  a 
bud  and  is  a  rose  ? 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


There  came  at  last  an  hour  when  Melicent  per 
ceived  that  her  rose  was  afire,  her  dawn  abloom,  her 
chaotic  world  an  ordered  cosmos,  swinging  out  of 
haunted  darkness  into  solemn  light. 

It  was  a  snowy  night,  and  the  wind  was  wild.  The 
knuckles  of  the  storm  knocked  upon  the  windows 
eagerly,  as  if  an  organism  without  called  upon  that 
within.  Melicent  had  been  less  strong  than  usual, 
and  breathed  with  difficulty.  She  had  been  thinking 
all  day  about  her  husband  —  God  knew  why  —  un 
easily.  All  her  thoughts  and  feeling  returned  upon 
herself,  baffled  and  beaten,  like  homing  pigeons  that 
could  not  be  induced  to  fly  unless  they  were  carried 
to  a  distance  by  force. 

It  was  never  possible  afterwards  for  her  to  explain 
the  manner  of  her  soul  when  it  became  suddenly  but 
very  quietly  apparent  to  her  that  it  communicated 
with  Soul  beyond  itself.  Out  of  the  storm,  cleaving 
the  dark,  the  wings  of  intelligence,  emotion,  power, 
replied  to  her;  and  she  perceived  for  the  first  time  in 
her  own  consciousness  that  there  was  such  a  fact  as 
human  prayer. 

She  struggled  against  her  pillows  and  sat  erect, 
stretching  out  her  beautiful  arms. 

"  God ! "  she  cried.     "  Great  God ! " 

She  sank  back,  panting.  Her  ignorance  of  the 
world  of  spirit  —  its  supernal  heights,  its  sacred 
depths  —  overwhelmed  her  with  a  sudden  shame. 

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HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


"I  do  not  know  the  language,"  she  said.  "I  am  an 
uneducated  person." 

She  got  up  and  groped  to  the  window,  trying  to 
fling  it  wide;  but  the  sleet  had  frozen,  and  she  could 
not  stir  the  sash.  She  dropped  upon  the  cushioned 
seat  below  and  laid  her  face  upon  the  sill.  The  room 
seemed  as  small  as  asphyxiation.  Only  the  night,  the 
storm,  the  skies,  immensity,  were  large  enough  to  hold 
the  mighty  impulse  which  enveloped  her. 

"Thou,  Unseen!"  she  said  aloud,  "I  am  a  prisoner 
of  the  body.  I  cannot  break  my  bars.  My  fetters  are 
sore  upon  me.  I  suffer  more  than  anybody  knows  - 
it  is  making  a  coward  of  me.  I  bear  it  very  badly.  I 
am  not  brave.  I  am  worn  out.  I  hate  my  life  —  oh, 
I  loathe  my  life  —  and  yet  I  have  this  inconsistency — 
I  cannot  understand  it  in  myself  —  I  am  afraid  to  die. 
Is  that  not  contemptible  ?  Nobody  understands  it  — 
no  well  person  —  how  could  they  ?  No,  nor  any  of 
the  people  who  die  slowly  —  in  their  beds,  persons 
they  love  holding  their  hands,  because  you  know 
when  it  will  be.  But  not  to  know  —  never  to  know  - 
any  minute  —  and  every  little  thing  that  happens 
lessening  the  chances  —  and  not  to  be  a  religious  per 
son,  either.  I  used  to  have  such  a  happy  life.  I  was 
well,  and  the  world  was  gay,  like  tulips  in  the  grass. 
I  went  to  dinners,  I  loved  my  husband,  I  enjoyed 
myself.  I  did  not  expect  to  be  like  this  —  not  to  suffer 
this  way  —  not  to  be  crushed  out  as  you  Jd  step  on  a 

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HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


crawling  creature  —  just  the  motion  of  some  awful 
Foot  —  " 

She  sank  from  the  cushion  to  the  floor  and  reached 
for  her  bell,  but  withdrew  her  shaking  hand. 

"I  won't,"  she  thought.  "I  will  not  have  Sarah 
Peck  around  —  not  just  now  —  not  if  I  do  die!" 

Her  emotion  and  her  will  dueled  together,  and  for 
the  first  time  the  agitation  which  had  almost  over 
powered  her  went  down  before  the  stronger  force. 
She  lay  where  she  was  till  she  could  crawl;  and  then, 
crawling,  reached  her  bed.  That  first  acute,  coherent 
prayer  went  nigh  to  being  her  last. 

"It  is  plain,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  even  pray  like 
other  people  —  One  must  have  more  strength  —  and 
then  I  do  not  say  things  in  the  proper  way." 

With  her  indomitable  good  sense  she  added,  — 

"A  person  cannot  be  expected  to  kill  herself 
praying." 

Now,  while  she  lay  there,  smiling  whimsically,  for 
she  had  the  saving  quality  of  humor  when  suffering 
gave  it  half  a  chance,  there  came  to  her  something 
which  she  had  not  recalled  for  who  knew  how  long? 
It  took  the  form  of  a  sensation,  as  the  acutest  memory 
often  will,  and  she  leaned  against  a  substance  soft  and 
warm.  She  perceived  suddenly  that  it  was  her  mother's 
knee.  Above  her  a  still  face  brooded  and  melted;  it 
had  the  unfathomable  tenderness  that  only  mothers' 
faces  are  deep  enough  to  know.  She  was  a  little  girl, 

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HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


and  she  said  her  prayers  as  she  had  been  taught,  before 
she  went  to  bed. 

"Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

Melicent  smiled.   Too  weak  for  emotion, —  even  for 
the  sacred  emotion  that  may  save  one's  soul  alive,  - 
forced  to  the  parsimonious  economy  of  feeling  by 
which  the  sick  are  bound,  she  turned  upon  her  tum 
bled  pillow  and  her  lips  moved. 

"  Won't  this  do?  "they  said. 

"Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep." 

Miss  Peck  came  running  up. 

"He  is  at  the  wire,"  she  cried.  "He  called  for  you. 
He  said  not  to  disturb  you,  unless  -  -  Good  Lord ! 
I  should  say  so!  Put  your  two  feet  back  upon  that 
bed !  —  No.  Not  a  livin'  step,  on  my  diploma !  Here. 
I  '11  open  the  window  for  you.  Can  you  hold  on  a 
minute  till  I  ring  him  off?" 

The  nurse  bent  to  the  broken  whispers  that  struggled 
from  the  pillow.  "  My  dear  love  to  him  —  and  I  have 
something  to  say  to  him  —  I  will  write.  Miss  Peck  ? 
Miss  Peck!  Be  sure  and  thank  Mr.  Glessner  for  tak 
ing  the  trouble  to  call  me  up  to-night.  If  I  had  been  a 
little  stronger  - 

But  Miss  Peck,  at  the  long-distance  wire,  was 
wrestling  with  the  powers  and  principalities  of  the 
storm. 

155 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


"It  cut  us  off,"  she  said  discontentedly,  when  she 
hurried  back. 

Drama,  like  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  is  within,  not 
without. 

It  is  the  human  spirit  rather  than  the  human  inci 
dent  that  stands  for  energy  and  the  thrill  of  life.  It 
would  not  be  easy  to  explain  to  the  lover  of  a  cheap 
stage  or  of  a  decadent  novel  the  intensity  of  thought 
and  feeling  which  now  accelerated  the  existence  of  this 
invalid  woman.  She  came  into  the  spiritual  inher 
itance  with  a  quiet  excitement  which  the  passing  of 
many  days  did  not  wear  down.  Your  enthusiasm  or 
mine  may  rush  like  a  toreador  into  the  arena  of  a 
startling  world.  Hers  fed  upon  the  reality  and  the 
history  of  a  prayer. 

She  wrote  her  husband  when  she  had  thought  it 
well  over,  and  tried  to  explain  to  him  something  of  the 
novelty  of  that  which  had  befallen  her.  She  was  sur 
prised  that  she  found  this  so  hard  to  do,  chiefly  for 
lack  of  a  common  vocabulary;  for  she  perceived  from 
her  own  experience  that  he  would  not  readily  know 
what  she  was  talking  about.  She  did  not  see  her  way 
to  make  the  subject  interesting  to  him,  and  Melicent 
was  not  stupid.  She  never  wrote  him  a  dull  letter. 
Now  she  observed  that  she  must  use  a  foreign  tongue 
to  her  politician.  Nevertheless,  she  wrote.  He  had 
planned  to  come  home  for  a  Sunday,  but  the  bill 

156 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


before  the  Ways  and  Means,  then  occupying  the  atten 
tion  of  the  country,  needed  him.  He  was  detained, 
and  regretfully  telephoned  to  say  so.  She  had  not 
seen  him  for  nearly  three  weeks;  this  was  the  longest 
separation  of  their  lives.  Glessner  had  not  yet  allowed 
his  career  to  remove  his  wife  from  the  foreground  to 
the  perspective  of  life. 

Meanwhile  she  continued  to  pray  as  she  continued 
to  breathe.  That  outgoing  of  the  spirit  to  the  "not 
herself"  which  existed  beyond  her  personal  lot  had 
become  to  her  a  strange  necessity,  like  a  narcotic  to 
the  sleepless;  yet  she  exercised  her  newly  discovered 
energy  with  a  restraint  which  would  have  commanded 
the  respect  of  the  coldest  scoffer.  Since  that  first 
rapturous  break  into  the  world  of  spiritual  power 
she  had  never  wasted  her  strength  in  superfluous 
emotion. 

Each  night  she  quietly  gathered  up  the  burden  of 
the  day  into  the  words  her  mother  taught  her,  and  she 
made  no  effort  to  think  or  feel  beyond  them.  When 
she  laid  her  down  to  sleep  she  prayed  the  Lord  her 
soul  to  keep,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  matter.  It 
could  not  be  said  that  her  fear  of  death  was  extin 
guished,  but  that  it  was  superseded  by  something 
which  she  felt  more  keenly:  the  conscious  effort  to 
remove  it  by  a  newly  attained  faculty.  Miss  Peck's 
experienced  eyes  observed  her  patient  with  a  studious 
perplexity.  Sarah  Peck  perceived  that  she  had  to  deal 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


with  something  which  was  not  taught  in  the  hospitals. 
She  wondered  if  the  omission  were  in  the  surgical  line. 

"Has  the  carrier  come?" 

"Yes." 

"And  gone?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"No  letter  to-day?" 

"You  had  one  yesterday." 

"I  know.  I  had  reasons  —  something  especial.  Is 
the  door  open?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"  All  the  doors  open  between  me  and  the  telephone  ?' ' 

"Just  as  usual;  every  one." 

"You  are  sure  there  hasn't  been  any  call?" 

"Oh,  yes  —  sure.  It  ain't  forty-eight  hours  since 
you  had  one.  I  never  knew  a  man  telephone  his 
wife  so  much.  It  must  cost  a  sight  —  all  these  long 
distance  tolls.  —  Ain't  feeling  quite  so  well,  are 
you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Glessner.  "I  had 
not  thought  —  perhaps  not.  One  has  something  else 
to  think  of  than  how  one  feels.  —  Would  you  go  and 
ask  the  Central  —  no,  never  mind.  Miss  Peck  ?  I 
don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings.  But  I  think  I  should 
like  to  be  alone  for  a  little  while." 

"Here  's  your  bell,"  said  Sarah  Peck,  averting  the 
profile  of  a  grieved  squirrel.  She  went  away,  but 

158 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


remained  within  hearing  of  her  patient,  on  the  couch 
in  the  hall. 

Melicent  lay  still  and  looked  about  her  room,  as  if 
the  familiar  details  of  it  might  reduce  the  force  of 
some  emotion  whose  current  startled  her.  The  pearl- 
white  roses  on  her  table  were  fresh  (Harris  had 
ordered  them  to  come  every  other  day);  the  velvet 
below  them,  beneath  a  mist  of  Mexican  embroidery 
blurred  into  the  rose  tint  of  the  walls ;  her  magazines, 
with  leaves  uncut,  disregarded  her;  her  mother's  Bible 
which  Miss  Peck  had  hunted  up  for  her  lay  on  the 
foot  of  the  lace-draped  bed;  her  mother's  picture,  with 
the  Leonardo's  Christ  above  it,  had  the  manner  of 
observing  her.  The  large  brass  fan  on  its  shelf  stood 
stolidly  but  resentful,  as  if  it  would  have  crashed 
something  to  atoms  if  it  could  move;  or  perhaps  it 
would  have  spun  disdainfully  and  whirled  into  space, 
whence  electric  fires  spring,  and  where  they  cannot  be 
imprisoned  to  the  whims  of  man. 

The  night  was  as  sultry  as  it  was  still;  a  warm  fog 
was  crawling  from  some  unexplained,  one  was  almost 
tempted  to  say  some  inexperienced  point  of  the  com 
pass,  and  the  lungs  of  the  air  were  paralyzed. 

Mrs.  Glessner  panted  upon  the  bed,  but  she  had 
the  unconsciousness  of  her  personal  discomfort  which 
mental  exaltation  may  give  to  physical  suffering.  She 
was  drawn  into  the  upper  ether  of  a  strange  and 
mighty  moment  through  which  she  seemed  to  herself 

159 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


to  be  swept  like  an  indirigible  air-ship,  moving  at  the 
will  of  winds  upon  whose  nature  or  force  she  could 
not  count. 

With  motionless  body,  with  closed  eyes,  she  stirred 
and  saw.  A  half  a  thousand  miles  away  from  her  dim 
room,  from  her  gray  life,  from  Sarah  Peck  and  the 
electric  fan,  she  moved  about  the  throbbing  city  where 
she  had  not  set  her  foot  for  now  six  years.  Those  few 
poignant  weeks  of  last  winter  scarcely  counted,  except 
as  one  of  the  nightmares  in  the  dream  of  her  troubled 
life. 

Then,  borne  from  her  private  car,  by  way  of  the 
easiest  automobile  in  Washington,  to  her  rooms,  she 
had  remained  there  until  the  experiment,  disastrous 
for  the  invalid,  and  hardly  less  so  for  the  husband, 
ended  in  a  demonstrated  failure.  Without  a  protest 
from  any  source,  she  had  been  taken  back  to  her 
New  England  country  home.  She  had  not  left  it 
since. 

Now,  as  she  crossed  the  smooth  pavement  of  the 
brilliant  streets,  curious  old  Bible  words  occurred  to 
her:  " I  sought  him  whom  my  soul  loveth  .  .  .  but  I 
found  him  not  ...  I  said,  'I  will  rise  now  .  .  .  and 
seek  him.'  "  She  experienced  no  difficulty  in  finding 
his  apartment,  to  which  she  was  drawn  by  hidden 
currents  as  unseen  but  as  effective  as  the  wires  which 
interlaced  and  lighted  the  house.  Should  love  be  less 
ingenious  than  electricity?  She  asked  herself  the 

1 60 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


question  for  the  first  time,  smiling  as  she  did  so  at  the 
conceit. 

His  doors  opened  to  her  without  ring  or  knock,  and 
she  crossed  the  vestibule  to  his  parlor.  There  was  a 
portiere,  of  the  sort  common  to  hotel  suites,  a  heavy, 
vulgar  thing;  it  was  of  a  dark  color,  maroon  or  Indian 
red.  She  stood  half  behind  it,  clinging  to  its  plush 
folds,  and  —  now  for  the  first  time  conscious  of  fear 
lest  she  should  be  discovered,  but  made  quickly  aware 
that  she  was  not — she  gazed  into  the  room. 

Three  men  sat  at  a  walnut  centre-table.  The  table 
was  littered  with  papers  and  cigar  ashes.  The  room 
was  purple  with  smoke.  Out  of  its  spiral  coils  the  fig 
ures  and  faces  of  the  men  evolved.  One  presented  an 
indifferent  appearance  —  she  could  not  have  told  her 
self  anything  about  him  except  that  his  hair  had  once 
been  red.  The  other  was  a  heavy  man  with  a  furtive 
eye;  his  face  was  broad  and  blunt;  his  hands  were 
more  intelligent  than  the  rest  of  his  physique,  and  one 
of  them  played  with  a  pencil.  With  the  other  he 
snapped  the  corners  of  envelopes  sedulously,  as  if  he 
were  setting  a  paper  trap.  The  third  man  was  Harris 
Glessner.  He  was  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  was 
not  smoking;  he  seemed  to  have  laid  aside  his  cigar 
to  think  better  without  it. 

Melicent  made  an  instinctive  movement  to  go  in 
and  speak  to  her  husband;  she  longed  to  put  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  an  arm  about  his  neck,  but  found 

161 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


that  this  was  impossible;  advance  she  could  not,  for 
whatever  reason;  but  stood  swaying,  checked  and 
forbidden,  clinging  to  the  portiere.  She  knew  little 
of  politics  (she  had  sometimes  asked  him  to  explain 
that  mystery,  but  Harris  had  replied  that  he  did  not 
like  to  talk  shop  with  her),  and  she  knew  less  of  law; 
but  she  made  out  soon  enough  to  understand  that 
which  smote  her  sick  and  still.  He  who  sat  making 
paper  traps  was  proposing  to  Harris  a  monstrous 
thing:  he  was  offering  her  husband  —  her  husband — 
an  opportunity  of  the  questionable  sort  that  ap 
proaches  a  man  in  a  man's  world;  it  had  to  do,  she 
perceived,  with  his  vote,  or  with  his  influence,  with 
one  of  the  sacred  charges  which  the  people  confide  to 
the  brains  and  principles  that  they  choose  to  represent 
them. 

She  was  shocked  to  perceive  that  her  husband 
did  not  receive  the  proposition  as  the  insult  that  it 
was.  Inscrutably  silent,  he  sat  with  level  eyes  that 
scarcely  saw  the  man  who  played  with  the  envelopes. 
Glessner's  cigar  gleamed  between  his  fingers;  the 
strong  lines  about  his  mouth  seemed  to  weaken  as  she 
watched;  he  was  sunken  in  a  pit  of  speculation  or 
indecision. 

The  man  who  was  talking  snatched  up  a  fresh 
envelope  and  twisted  it  into  a  curious  form  like  that 
of  the  old-fashioned  fly-traps  which  our  mothers  used 
to  make,  and  suddenly  tossed  it  aside.  The  envelope 

162 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


unfolded  slowly  from  its  unnatural  shape,  and  re 
vealed  itself  to  the  wife's  eyes  quite  plainly;  it  was  one 
that  had  been  addressed  in  her  husband's  hand 
writing  —  and  it  was  addressed  to  herself.  As  it  was 
slipping  over  into  the  waste-basket,  Harris  put  out  his 
clean,  white  hand  and  reclaimed  it;  he  put  it  in  his 
pocket — gently,  she  thought ;  but  still  he  did  not  speak. 
His  silence  distressed  her;  it  seemed  to  her  to  imply 
a  moral  vacillation  of  which  in  her  clinical  world  she 
had  never  dreamed  that  he  could  be  capable,  and 
she  cried  out :  - 

"Harris!  Harris!  Dear  Harris!"  three  times  to 
him,  piteously. 

The  cry  caught  her  back  again  to  her  own  room, 
to  her  own  bed.  There  she  lay,  agitated  beyond  any 
agitation  that  she  had  ever  known.  Her  quivering 
lips  stirred.  Self  went  out  of  her  like  a  burden  thrown 
a  thousand  miles  down  to  lighten  and  quicken  flight. 
She  could  no  more  have  asked  any  personal  comfort 
of  the  Almighty  Heart  than  she  could  have  sprung 
into  a  life-boat  and  left  Harris  on  deck  of  a  drown 
ing  ship.  All  her  being  leaped  to  the  side  of  his,  and 
stood  as  if  it  would  protect  him,  or  perish  with  him. 

But  Melicent  was  now  very  tired  and  weak;  she 
found  it  impossible  to  exercise  her  newly  discovered 
spiritual  faculties;  these  evaded  her,  as  the  spiritual 
will,  from  sheer  physical  inadequacy;  she  could  not 
pray;  she  could  not  pray  for  her  husband  in  any  man- 

163 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


ner  adjusted  to  the  emergency  in  which,  whether 
rightly  or  wrongly,  she  felt  him  to  be.  No  words 
worthy  of  his  need  or  her  distress  subjected  themselves 
to  her  will.  In  utter  weariness  and  discouragement  she 
crept  into  those  her  mother  taught  her,  as  she  had 
crept  upon  her  mother's  lap.  Something  other  than 
her  will  wrought  upon  the  prayer  of  her  childhood 
this  significant  and  beautiful  revision :  — 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  his  soul  to  keep." 

She  slept  little  and  brokenly,  but  towards  morning 
floated  into  uneasy  rest.  The  winter  dawn  was  later 
than  usual,  for  the  fog  was  still  solid,  and  rose  like  a 
wall  between  the  windows  and  the  world.  Melicent's 
consciousness  began  where  it  left  off  in  the  night,  and 
she  found  herself  repeating  words  that  grew  from 
those  with  which  she  prayed  herself  asleep  as  rhyme 
grows  to  mating  rhyme:  — 

"  Be  near  to  bless  him  when  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  for  his  dear  sake." 

Her  mind  was  quite  clear  and  strong,  and  moved 
without  delirium  or  delusion  in  the  direction  whence 
her  heart  propelled  it.  She  thought  of  her  husband  — 
she  thought  of  him  without  respite, — but  all  her  vigor 
was  now  in  her  mind  and  heart.  Her  body  had  be 
come  suddenly  and  unaccountably  weak.  This  fact 
she  did  not  notice;  or  if  she  did,  she  gave  no  sign. 

164 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


She  never  permitted  herself  to  be  what  is  called  "sick 
abed,"  but  lay  upon  the  outside  of  it,  beneath  her 
rose-pink  puff.  Miss  Peck  observed  her,  not  without 
anxiety. 

"  I  sent  for  the  doctor, "  she  said.   "  Just  our  luck  - 
he  's  gone  off;  out  of  town  somewhere.   You  '11  have 
to  let  me  call  one  of  the  others." 

But  Mrs.  Glessner  shook  her  head.  She  was  paying 
the  least  possible  attention  to  anything  the  nurse  was 
saying,  and  this  Miss  Peck  perceived. 

"'T ain't  a  good  day,"  she  suggested  consolingly. 
"You  might  as  well  be  a  mouse  in  a  glass  bell.  There 
ain't  any  air  to  breathe.  There !  I  believe  I  '11  turn 
your  fan  on." 

The  patient  did  not  answer,  and  Miss  Peck 
switched  the  fan  first  to  its  gentlest,  then  to  its  fiercest 
speed.  The  room  was  gray,  although  the  shades 
were  flung  to  the  top;  the  fog  pressed  up  against  the 
windows  like  the  depths  of  a  motionless  sea  which 
had  arisen  silently  in  the  night  and  engulfed  the  house. 
The  two  women  looked  into  it  and  up  through  it  like 
divers  from  some  unfathomable  submarine  depth. 
Miss  Peck  went  to  the  window,  and  returned  uneasily 
to  the  bed.  The  hand  which  crept  to  the  patient's 
pulse  was  pushed  away,  not  without  some  vigor. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  about  my  pulse," 
said  Mrs.  Glessner;  "I  have  things  to  think  of." 
She  lay  staring  steadily  into  the  fog. 

165 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


The  fan  was  whirling  wildly,  fixed  to  its  base,  unable 
to  escape.  Melicent  felt  as  if  it  were  trying  to  whirl 
off  into  space,  and  that  it  would  drag  her  with  it  if 
it  could.  The  sound  of  it  was  half  articulate,  wholly 
uncanny,  and  filled  the  world. 

Miss  Peck  stepped  softly  out  into  the  hall,  but  a 
voice  from  the  bed  detained  her. 

"Miss  Peck,  you  will  not  telephone  —  not  yet. 
Wait  awhile.  I  am  not  as  sick  as  you  think.  I  don't 
wish  Mr.  Glessner  disturbed  —  not  yet." 

"Very  well, "  said  Miss  Peck,  soothingly.  " I  s'pose 
you  '11  let  me  go  down  and  heat  your  beef  tea,  won't 
you.  There's  no  objection  to  that,  is  there?  I  am 
going,  anyhow." 

She  slid  downstairs  and  went  to  the  telephone  as 
straight  as  she  could  go.  She  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  shut  the  doors. 

Sarah  Peck  sat  at  the  telephone  with  an  inspired 
obstinacy  upon  her  face.  The  squirrel  in  her  profile 
seemed  to  come  out  and  crack  a  hard  nut.  She  was 
an  experienced  telephoner,  and  the  wire  carried  her 
piercing  American  voice  very  distinctly  through  the 
windless,  resonant  fog.  "  There ! "  she  said,  when,  after 
the  necessary  delay  of  the  long-distance  message,  she 
hung  up  the  receiver,  "I  'm  not  going  to  be  ordered 
around  by  any  patient.  She  ain't  fit  to  judge,  God 
help  her.  —  I  don't  s'pose  God  has  much  to  do  with 
it,"  she  added,  with  the  natural  materialism  of  her 

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HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


profession.  "It 's  husbands  are  the  Almighty,  most 
cases,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

Sarah  Peck  came  back  with  her  beef  tea. 

"You  Ve  been  telephoning,"  said  Mrs.  Glessner. 
"  I  know  it  as  well  as  if  I  had  heard  you." 

"Well,  yes,"  replied  Sarah  Peck,  "I  did.  I  tele 
phoned  to  my  gentleman  friend.  I  had  something  im 
portant  <to  say  to  him,  and  I  thought  you  would  n't 
mind." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  a  gentleman  friend,"  ob 
served  the  patient,  with  a  spark  of  feminine  wicked 
ness.  "He  never  came  here  to  see  you,  did  he?" 

"I  don't  allow  him  to  come  when  I  am  on  cases," 
returned  Miss  Peck,  primly. 

The  fog,  as  it  thickened,  changed  its  nature,  as  fogs 
do;  the  wall  had  toppled  into  the  ocean;  the  sea 
crinkled  into  a  sponge  —  a  huge,  unwieldy,  pitiless 
sponge,  held  at  the  face  and  pressed  down  hard. 
Melicent  found  herself  putting  out  her  hands  and 
trying  to  push  it  away.  As  the  day  crawled  on,  and 
Mrs.  Glessner's  condition  did  not  improve,  Miss  Peck 
took  this  nut,  too,  into  her  own  teeth  and  cracked  it. 
She  sent  for  the  foreign  doctor,  who  left  drugs 
which  the  patient  refused,  and  went  away.  After  his 
visit,  Miss  Peck  applied  herself  to  the  long-distance 
wire  again,  but  failed  to  connect  her  number  with 
that  of  anybody's  gentleman  friend,  and  returned  to 
her  post  upstairs.  The  patient  slept,  or  seemed  to 

167 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


sleep,  and  the  rage  of  the  electric  fan   rilled   the 
room. 

Now,  in  truth,  Melicent  was  not  sleeping;  she  was 
feeling;  she  might  have  said  that  she  was  praying, 
except  that,  as  we  have  noticed,  she  was  still  unused 
to  the  terminology,  and  the  religious  phrase  did  not 
readily  occur  to  her.  All  day  her  emotion  outran  her 
strength,  but  all  day  it  ran  the  old,  beautiful,  self- 
effacing  road  of  a  wife's  love.  She  seemed  to  have 
lost  the  occult  power,  or  the  telepathic  gift  —  call  it 
what  you  will  —  of  the  previous  evening,  and  no 
longer  with  mind  or  eye  could  she  follow  the  image 
of  her  husband.  Nothing  was  left  her;  by  no  way 
could  she  project  herself  towards  him,  except  in  the 
simple  words  which  had  got  possession  of  her.  She 
rang  the  changes  upon  them  in  the  fluctuations  of  her 
strength.  Whether  she  had  enough  of  it  left  to  take 
her  through  the  day  or  the  night  was  a  matter  which 
had  ceased  to  occupy  her  thoughts.  She  did  not  con 
cern  herself  whether  she  should  live  or  die;  she  con 
cerned  herself  with  him. 

"  I  pray  the  Lord  for  his  dear  sake  — 
For  his  dear  sake  — 
I  pray  the  Lord  his  soul  to  keep." 

It  might  be  said  that  her  being  had  now  no  articula 
tion  beyond  these  gentle  outcries.  As  the  night  drew 
on,  Miss  Peck  noticed  that  her  lips  moved,  and 
stooped  to  catch  some  wish  or  sign  of  suffering  from 

1 68 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


her.  The  nurse  was  embarrassed  to  find  that  the 
patient  was  praying.  The  staff  had  not  taught  the 
training-school  what  to  do  for  such  a  symptom. 
Sarah  Peck  wished  that  she  could  have  recorded  on 
her  chart  the  fluctuations  of  a  condition  which  made  a 
patient  look  like  that ;  but  she  missed  them,  obviously. 
She  felt  that  this  was  the  fault  of  the  electric  fan, 
which  raved  like  thwarted  love  or  an  escaping  soul 
about  the  room.  All  night  the  fan  disturbed  itself  - 
now  madly,  now  patiently  —  but  all  night  it  had  the 
energy  of  a  purpose,  as  if  it  would  achieve  God  knew 
what,  or  perish  He  knew  how.  Melicent  heard  it 
plainly  and  it  did  not  seem  to  trouble  her.  She  felt 
herself  whirling  on  with  it,  spinning  into  spaces 
unseen,  acquiring  powers  unknown,  growing  one 
with  the  mysterious  forces  of  nature,  which  went  upon 
their  awful  errands,  and  returned  when  these  were 
done.  She  felt  as  solitary  as  if  she  had  been  cast  out 
into  ether,  the  only  thing  that  had  no  orbit,  and  so 
went  seeking  one  with  all  its  being.  Now  the  fan 
itself  seemed  to  have  taken  the  words  from  her  too 
weak  lips,  and  to  repeat  them  in  the  strange,  half- 
querulous  tones  of  the  ever-living  and  all-demanding 
elements :  — 

"  I  pray  the  Lord  .  .  . 
I  pray  the  Lord  his  soul  to  keep." 

In  the  morning  she  was  no  better;  perhaps,  as  she 
tried  to  assure  Miss  Peck,  no  worse.   She  experienced 

169 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


unusual  need  of  sleep,  and  drifted  into  it  again,  almost 
as  soon  as  she  awoke. 

The  day  was  vivid  when  she  turned  upon  her  pillow 
and  fully  found  herself.  For  once  she  had  not  been 
able  to  get  into  her  pretty  gowns  and  play  that  she 
was  not  sick  abed,  but  lay  still  beneath  the  rose  puff 
in  her  white  nightdress  with  its  lace  elbow  sleeves, 
her  long  hair  braided  in  two  bright  braids,  and  her 
sweet,  gray  profile  set  towards  the  window. 

There  was  no  fog.  Walls  and  seas  and  smothering 
sponges  had  melted  and  were  not.  The  sun  was  shin 
ing  joyously.  A  dart  of  it  had  stabbed  through  the 
lace  curtain  and  reached  the  wall  above  the  mirror, 
where  it  seemed  to  pierce  like  a  golden  nail  and  sup 
port  the  pictures  of  her  mother  and  the  great  Christ : 
these  regarded  her  smiling,  she  thought. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  for  a  few  moments  that  some 
one  was  holding  her  hand.  Plainly  it  could  not  be 
Sarah  Peck,  and  she  had  not  thought  of  herself  as 
sick  enough  for  the  doctor  to  do  that.  She  turned  and 
took  a  leisurely  look,  and  across  the  lenses  of  her 
eyes  there  passed  the  image  of  her  husband  sitting  still 
and  pale  beside  the  bed. 

"I  am  having  that  strange  experience  again,"  she 
thought.  "It  is  not  Harris;  it  is  the  vision  of  Harris. 
It  will  pass  —  as  the  other  passed.  I  will  hold  it  as 
long  as  I  can  —  Dear  Harris! "  she  said  aloud. 

But  then  she  perceived  that  it  was  not  his  vision; 
170 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


it  was  not  the  wraith  of  his  body,  nor  of  her  own,  that 
met  in  that  long,  warm,  silent  hand -clasp,  too  inti 
mate  at  first  to  be  broken  by  any  words.  She  saw 
that  he  was  trying  not  to  startle  her,  as  he  had  been 
cautioned,  so  she  spoke  before  he  dared  to,  quite  as  if 
he  had  been  there  every  day. 

"Why,  dear,"  she  said,  "good -morning!" 

She  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  could  not  answer. 
The  emotion  in  his  face  did  not  arouse  her  own, 
because  she  was  too  weak  to  feel  any.  But  it  drew 
them  together  by  quiet,  invisible  currents.  He 
stooped,  and  their  lips  found  each  other.  She  did 
not  feel  able  to  lift  herself  from  the  pillow,  but  lay 
observing  him  gently:  his  strong  head,  sparsely  dashed 
with  gray,  his  experienced,  kind,  gray  eyes  alert  and 
worldly,  but  luminous  with  the  consciousness  of  her. 
The  lines  about  his  mouth  were  all  strong  now;  it 
shut  with  a  tender  resolution. 

She  had  half  forgotten  how  massive  his  shoulders 
were.  He  had  the  firm  attitudes  of  the  successful  man. 
One  of  his  white,  authoritative  hands  sank  into  the 
down  of  the  rose-pink  silk  above  her  body  as  if  to 
make  sure  that  he  had  not  lost  her.  The  other  held 
her  own  cold  fingers.  These  were  growing  slowly 
warm  within  his  vital  grasp. 

Miss  Peck  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  warning 
eyes,  and  went  away. 

"  Mele,'  'said  Glessner,  "we  must  not  talk — not  yet." 
171 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


"  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  ?  "  asked  Melicent. 

"Oh,  any  length  of  time.   Until  you  get  well." 

"Is n't  that  rather  a  large  proposition ?  " 

"I  don't  care  how  large.  — Why  didn't  you  send 
for  me  before  ?  " 

"I  didn't  send  for  you  at  all.  You  see,  I  was  so 
busy." 

"Busy?" 

"Busy  thinking,"  she  said  dreamily.  She  reached 
for  his  free  hand,  and  disengaging  hers  from  the 
other,  made  him  understand  that  he  should  place  it 
on  the  pillow,  so  that  she  could  turn  her  cheek  upon  it, 
and  in  that  nest  of  love  and  warmth  she  rested  with  a 
divine  content.  He  sat  beside  her,  scarcely  stirring. 

As  the  day  deepened,  she  strengthened.  He  per 
ceived  that  whatever  her  burden  was,  it  would  now 
harm  her  less  to  share  it  than  to  wear  it,  and  when  he 
saw  that  she  was  determined  to  speak  he  did  not  gain 
say  her,  but  bent  and  listened ;  guardedly,  she  thought 
—  not  without  the  pickets  in  his  handsome  eyes. 

Her  gaze  traversed  his  familiar  lineaments;  it  was 
as  if  she  sought  a  new  road  across  the  map  of  him. 
Suddenly  her  pathological  existence  seemed  to  her  so 
small  a  matter  beside  his  vigorous  and  powerful  one 
that  her  courage  fell,  and  what  she  had  purposed  to 
say  failed  her  altogether;  so  she  plunged  into  the 
last  words  she  had  meant  to  utter:— 

"Harris,  what  did  those  two  men  want  of  you?" 
172 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


Glessner  stared  upon  her. 

"Night  before  last  —  that  foggy  night.   It  was  at 
your  hotel.   One  of  them  had  red  hair.   The  other  - 
I  hate  the  other.    They  were  trying  to  persuade  you 
to  do  something.   It  was  something  you  thought  you 
ought  not  to  do." 

"  Do  you  often  have  bad  dreams  of  this  sort,  Mele  ?  " 
asked  Glessner,  in  the  soothing  tones  of  an  alienist. 
But  Mele  disregarded  him  without  the  tolerance  of  a 
smile. 

" Ought  you  to  have  done  it?"   she  persisted. 

The  guards  in  the  politican's  eyes  retreated;  they 
were  replaced  by  a  species  of  superstitious  discomfort. 

"Probably  not,"  he  parleyed,  "if  one  had  red  hair, 
and  since  you  hate  the  other  -  He  tried  to  laugh  it 
off,  but  still  sat  staring.  Mele  caught  her  feeble  breath. 

"Did  you  do  it?"  she  demanded. 

"  If  you  could  possibly  explain  yourself  -  "  he  urged. 
Then  his  manner  veered  abruptly,  and  he  seemed  to 
weigh  and  measure  what  she  had  been  saying.  She  fol 
lowed  this  change  of  posture  as  quickly  as  it  occurred. 

"He  made  fly-traps  out  of  envelopes  at  your  table, " 
she  suggested,  in  a  matter  of  fact  tone. 

"She  has  been  delirious,"  thought  Glessner.  But 
he  did  not  say  so.  He  only  sat  beside  her,  staring  still. 

"Did  you  do  it?"  she  repeated. 

"No,  thank  God!"  said  Glessner,  in  a  ringing  voice. 
"  No  —  and  I  never  will !  " 

173 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


"No,"  reiterated  Mele,  comfortably.  "Of  course 
you  never  will.  You  couldn't,  could  you?" 

"Oh,  look  here!"  cried  the  Congressman,  "I  won't 
take  what  I  don't  deserve — not  from  you.  How  does 
a  man  know  what  he  could  or  could  n  't  do  ?  He  is  the 
equivalent  of  his  temptation,  or  he  is  not.  How  is 
he  to  know  whether  he  is,  or  isn't,  till  the  thing 
gets  a  mathematical  form?  Suppose  a  fellow  finds 
g,  weak  spot  in  himself  —  a  rotten  one,  if  you  say 
so  —  pretty  late  in  life,  when  he  had  thought  he  was 
safe  —  like  that!  And  then,  just  like  that!  too,  he 
thinks  —  he  thought  —  Mele,  Mele !  I  thought  of 
you" 

"I  know,"  nodded  Mele.  "The  envelope  was 
addressed  to  me.  You  took  it  away  from  him.  It  re 
minded  you." 

But  Glessner  did  not  seem  to  hear  her;  he  hurried, 
trembling,  along. 

"Anyhow,  I  did  n't,  and  here  I  am.  And  here  you 
are  —  alive.  I  '11  never  leave  you  again!  " 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  smiled  Mele.  "What  would 
your  constituents  say?" 

"Hang  my  constituents!" 

"Poor  things!"  said  Mele,  mischievously.  "They 
did  n't  mean  any  harm  —  when  they  elected  you." 

But  he  could  not  smile,  and  did  not  try. 

"I  '11  be  good  to  you,"  he  gulped. 

"You  always  have  been  good  to  me!"  protested 
174 


I'LL  GET  OUT  OF   IT   AS   SOON   AS   I   CAN 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


Mele.  "You  are  the  kindest  man  I  ever  knew.  And 
thoughtful  —  look  at  those  roses!  " 

She  pointed  a  frail  finger  at  the  pearl-white  buds. 
He  caught  the  fiager  to  his  lips,  and  then  her  hand, 
her  wrist,  her  arm. 

"I  '11  get  out  of  it  as  soon  as  I  can.  I  '11  come  back 
to  law  —  and  you." 

"  What  will  becomeof  thecountry  ?"  inquired  Mele. 
"What  will  become  of  your  career?" 

"Hang  my  career!"  exploded  the  politician. 

"  Dear,"  spoke  Mele,,  ruefully,  "I  've  been  such  a 
drag  on  you,  shut  in  here  —  always  ailing  —  never 
able  to  do  things  for  you  like  other  men's  wives.  Not 
even  to  stay  in  Washington  the  way  other  women 
do,  never  to  order  your  house,  can't  entertain  your 
friends — just  shriveling  here  with  Sarah  Peck — and 
an  electric  fan  —  to  ask  the  Lord  for  your  dear 
sake  —  " 

"Mele,"  said  the  Congressman,  in  an  undertone, 
"if  women  only  knew!  But  they  don't,  the  best  of 
them.  There  is  n't  a  well,  superficial  woman  in  the 
land  who  could  have  done  the  kind  of  thing  for  me 
you  have,  you  brave  girl!  You  patient,  sensitive, 
thinking,  feeling  creature!  .  .  .  What  has  got  into 
your  letters  lately?  You  never  wrote  any  like  them 
before.  I  won't  pretend  I  understood  them,  but 
sentences  from  them  got  between  me  and  the  bill. 

175 


HIS   SOUL   TO   KEEP 


I  was  answering  one  that  night  when  —  but  never 
mind  that  any  more.  Why,  Mele,  what  is  Washington  ? 
What  is  political  society?  A  house  of  cards,  Elaine 
called  it.  Suppose  you  could  have  been  there,  playing 
the  old  stupid  game  ?  Do  you  believe  you  could  have — 
well,  I  don't,  that's  all.  You  haven't  the  least  idea 
what  character  does  for  a  fellow;  then  there 's  the  way 
of  loving  him.  There 's  an  assorted  lot  of  ways,  and 
yours,  Mele  —  yours  .  .  .  Oh,  you  shall  get  well!" 
he  cried  boyishly.  "I  will  make  you  so  happy  you 
will  have  to  get  well.  Mele,  Mele,  Mele!"  he  en 
treated  her. 

Mele  lifted  a  shining,  inscrutable  smile.   She  put 
up  her  hand  to  his  cheek. 


A  SACRAMENT 

THE  summer  afternoon  was  long  and  vivid.  It  was 
not  too  warm,  but  had  the  happy  temperature  of  an 
ideal  day,  not  to  be  expected  by  the  calendar  of  the 
most  capricious  and  the  most  compelling,  we  may 
dare  to  say  one  of  the  most  respected  of  climates. 
Your  true  New-Englander  loves  his  Northeasterly 
and  forgives  his  blizzard,  adores  his  Junes  and  ig 
nores  his  Augusts,  pardons  his  March,  and  flaunts 
his  October  in  the  face  of  the  world. 

This  was  a  July  Sunday,  and  the  quite  comfortable 
audience  in  the  village  meeting-house,  having  pre 
pared  for  the  auto-da-fe  suitable  to  the  occasion, 
relaxed  in  their  bony  pews  with  the  sense  of  physical 
relief  which  goes  so  far  to  create  a  promising  spiritual 
condition. 

Considered  aesthetically,  the  church  presented  no 
illusions  and  few  attractions;  the  white  paint  was 
blistering  and  peeling  on  its  wooden  anatomy;  the 
light  and  heat  beat  through  its  unstained  windows; 
it  occupied  a  gravelly  hill-top,  in  winter  as  bleak  as 
the  theology  which  the  people  had  outgrown  with 
out  knowing  it,  in  summer  as  hot  as  the  doctrine  of 
eternal  retribution  to  which  the  senior  deacon  and 

177 


A   SACRAMENT 


the  heresy-hunter  of  the  parish  still  adhered.  The 
building,  which  had  borne  the  suns  and  snows  of  a 
hundred  bitter  years,  wore  an  expression  of  patient 
endurance  creditable  to  the  religion  that  it  repre 
sented,  and  yet,  somehow,  touched  by  the  spirit  of 
the  age  at  which  it  had  arrived.  The  long,  lean  spire 
rising  solitary  against  the  hard  sky  had  the  aspect 
of  enforced  rather  than  voluntary  loneliness;  it  seemed 
to  cast  reproachful  glances  at  the  well -occupied  grave 
yard  behind  the  horse-sheds,  —  as  those  of  a  church 
which  would  have  said  to  its  departed  worshipers :  — 

"You  can  be  buried  and  done  with  it.  I  was  built 
of  oak,  and  on  honor,  and  I  have  to  live  and  bear  it 
all  —  your  sins  and  your  sorrows  and  your  lack  of 
sense,  your  gossip  and  scandal,  and  your  theology; 
the  way  you  treat  your  pastors  and  drive  off  your 
young  men  —  but  you  can  be  buried  and  done  with 
it.  There  's  no  such  luck  for  me." 

This  was  on  the  outside,  where,  that  afternoon,  the 
young  people  of  the  parish  loafed  in  the  brambly 
graveyard  or  the  shaded  sheds,  flirting  or  gossiping  in 
undertones,  not  to  be  overheard  by  the  "members  " 
collected  within.  For  inside  the  church  it  was  four 
o'clock  of  a  communion  Sunday,  and  the  elect  of  the 
faith  were  about  to  partake  of  the  sacrament. 

"There's  as  many  as  sixty,"  suggested  a  clean- 
faced  boy  who  sat  on  a  gray  slab,  sarcophagus- 
shaped,  with  a  gentle  girl  beside  him;  there  was  a 

178 


A   SACRAMENT 


bodiless  cherub  on  the  sarcophagus,  green  with  moss 
and  grim  with  age;  the  boy  traced  the  cherub  with 
his  fingers. 

"I  used  to  think  it  was  an  owl,"  he  said,  "when  I 
was  a  little  fellow." 

But  the  girl  smiled  absently;  she  had  a  thoughtful 
look. 

"Don't  you  ever  want  to  go  too?"  She  nodded 
toward  the  church. 

" I  '11  go  anywhere  you  say,"  replied  the  boy.  "You 
know  I  will." 

"  I  like  the  way  they  look  when  they  come  out,"  said 
the  girl.  "It  ain't  the  same 's  when  they  go  in." 

"I  like  the  way  you  look,  all  times,"  returned  the 
eyes  of  the  boy.  But  his  lips  did  not  say  it ;  they  were 
restrained  by  the  higher  feeling  of  the  girl ;  his  nature 
followed  her  religious  sense  as  instinctively  as  his 
gaze  followed  her  motions.  Religion  was  a  mystery, 
like  love,  and  one  was  no  more  sacred  than  another  to 
him.  The  boy  and  girl  sat  contentedly  among  the 
dead.  Life  was  before  them,  and  joy;  both  seemed  to 
them  eternal;  the  graves  and  the  brambles  retreated 
from  their  observation  like  the  sombre  details  on  the 
margin  of  an  illuminated  page  whereon  a  passionate 
and  happy  lyric  has  been  printed. 

Inside  the  church  it  was  cool  and  quiet.  The  light 
was  now  so  late  that  it  could  not  offend,  and  entered 
the  long,  unshaded  western  windows  softly,  as  if  it, 

179 


A   SACRAMENT 


too,  had  been  a  worshiper.  The  summer  air  fluttered 
in  and  about  like  a  flock  of  invisible  birds;  one  had 
almost  the  sense  of  wings  against  the  face.  There 
was  a  scent  of  flowers  growing  outside  —  perhaps  a 
syringa,  overripe;  some  shrub  that  had  been  planted 
in  a  pitiful  attempt  to  soften  the  barrenness  of  this 
denied  and  unattractive  Zion. 

For  these  were  poor  people,  and  could  not  afford 
beautiful  things.  The  aesthetic  sense  is  expensive,  my 
cultivated  friend;  it  is  better  to  keep  it  under,  unless 
it  can  be  gratified.  Perhaps  it  were  better  not  to  have 
any;  there  was  now  and  then  some  one  in  the  country 
parish  who  thought  so,  —  for  instance,  the  summer 
lady  who  had  joined  these  plain  people  lately. 

She  pitied  that  parish  so  that  she  dared  let  nobody 
know  how  much;  all  the  starvation  of  it,  body  and 
soul,  its  ugliness  and  ignorance,  its  penury  and  petti 
ness  —  yes,  its  pettiness  most  of  all,  because  that  was 
least  the  material  of  pity;  so,  too,  its  willfulness  and 
hardness,  its  complacency  and  stupidity,  all  the  blots 
that  poverty  and  remoteness  and  ecclesiastical  bigotry 
dash  in  the  noble  face  of  faith.  Perhaps  most  of  all 
she  pitied  the  minister. 

But  she  was  not  there  that  afternoon  to  pity  any 
body.  Decorous  Sabbatical  glances  aimed  at  her 
empty  pew  had  already  made  known  to  the  wor 
shipers  that  Mrs.  Hermione  Alford  was  not  among 
them.  She  was  conspicuous  to  them  always  —  by 

1 80 


A   SACRAMENT 


her  efforts  to  seem  like  them,  as  much  as  by  her 
difference  from  them;  by  her  knowledge  of  a  world 
which  they  had  never  entered;  by  the  ease  of  it,  the 
dress  of  it,  and  the  candid  ingenuity  of  its  manner;  by 
the  conscientious,  perhaps  too  elaborate,  determina 
tion  to  make  herself  useful  or  beloved,  which  over 
takes  a  person  who  has  begun  rather  late  in  life  to 
consider  the  natures  or  needs  of  others.  Everybody 
in  church  knew  that  Mrs.  Alford  was  not  there,  be 
fore  the  Rev.  Daniel  True  came  out  from  the  minis 
ter's  room  to  open  the  service. 

The  audience  was  small, — those  of  communion 
Sundays  always  were,  —  but,  by  the  standard  of  the 
parish,  creditable  to  the  faith,  and,  to  the  most  inex 
perienced  or  skeptical  eye,  a  group  of  people  quite  in 
earnest. 

Prominent  among  these  was  the  senior  deacon ;  he 
had  a  submerged  air,  not  expressive  of  his  official  im 
portance;  he  had  creaking  feet,  and  good  intentions; 
he  sat  humbly  before  the  sacred  table. 

The  pew  of  the  heresy-hunter  was  opposite  the 
senior  deacon;  neither  appeared  to  observe  the  other 
that  afternoon.  The  heresy-hunter  had  one  of  the 
faces  which  seem  to  have  been  omitted  from  the 
processes  of  evolution,  a  specimen  left  over  from  a 
prehistoric  age;  he  had  the  eyes  of  a  ferret  and  the 
mouth  of  a  cod.  The  heresy-hunter  observed  keenly, 
but  inferred  weakly;  his  mentality  was  as  chaotic  as 

181 


A   SACRAMENT 


his  physiognomy,  yet  no  more  to  be  overlooked.  He 
had  influence,  but  was  not  popular.  He  had  more 
followers  than  friends. 

The  widow  of  the  last  pastor  sat  in  the  pew  imme 
diately  in  front  of  Mrs.  Alford's.  The  widow  was 
critical  of  the  present  pastor.  Her  daughter,  who 
worshiped  beside  her,  was  not.  The  minister's 
widow  was  very  poor;  perhaps  the  poorest  member 
of  a  congregation  familiar  with  the  filings  of  a  lifelong 
economy  and  the  teeth  of  a  biting  penury. 

The  minister's  widow  wore  a  long  crape  veil,  as 
rusty  as  an  unblackened  stove,  and  almost  as  thick. 
Her  daughter  had  large  eyes,  blue  and  melancholy; 
they  had  the  childlike  look  which  some  women  never 
outgrow  and  others  try  in  vain  to  acquire;  they  lifted 
once  when  the  pastor's  tall,  slender  height  rose  before 
the  people;  then  dropped  sadly. 

The  Rev.  Daniel  True  stood  beside  the  holy  table. 
For  such  a  scene,  perhaps  for  any  scene,  he  was  some 
thing  of  a  memorable  figure.  He  had  the  dignity  of 
early  middle  life,  but  none  of  its  signs  of  advancing 
age.  His  hair  was  quite  black,  and  curled  on  his 
temples  boyishly;  his  mustache,  not  without  a  worldly 
cut,  was  as  dark  as  his  hair,  and  concealed  a  mouth 
so  clean  and  fine  that  it  was  an  ethical  mistake  to 
cover  it.  He  had  sturdy  shoulders,  although  not 
quite  straight;  they  had  the  scholar's  stoop;  his 
hands  were  thin,  with  long  fingers;  his  gestures  were 

182 


A   SACRAMENT 


sparing  and  significant;  his  expression  was  so  sincere 
that  its  evident  devoutness  commanded  respect;  so 
did  his  voice,  which  was  authoritative  enough  to  be  a 
little  priestly,  and  lacking  somewhat  in  elocutionary 
finish,  as  the  voices  of  ministers  are  apt  to  be,  but 
genuine,  musical,  persuasive,  at  moments  vibrant 
with  oratorical  power.  He  had  a  warm  eye  and  a 
lovable  smile.  He  was  every  inch  a  minister,  but  he 
was  every  nerve  a  man. 

It  was  one  of  the  parishes  which  do  not  keep  their 
pastors,  and  Mr.  True  had  already  been  there  eight 
years.  His  people  could  not  estimate  him,  but  they 
were  attracted  to  him.  It  was  not  in  the  higher 
mathematics  that  they  should  understand  him,  but 
some  of  them  loved  him,  and  most  of  them  thought 
they  did. 

It  was  not  said,  but  it  was  always  felt,  about  the 
Reverend  Mr.  True  that  he  was  afraid  of  nobody. 
The  senior  deacon  and  the  heresy-hunter  did  not 
control  their  pastor.  That  awful  tribunal,  the  church 
committee,  which  has  wrecked  the  lives  and  weakened 
the  consciences  of  so  many  well-meaning  clergymen, 
had  no  more  terrors  for  this  one  than  if  he  had  been 
the  editor  of  a  popular  magazine.  He  was  as  inde 
pendent  of  parish  politics  as  a  sea-gull.  The  widow 
of  his  predecessor  said  this  was  because  he  was  not 
married. 

He  stood  for  some  moments  silently  before  his 

183 


A   SACRAMENT 


people  that  summer  afternoon;  he  had  an  attentive 
and  beautiful  expression,  as  if  he  listened  for  some 
command  from  the  invisible  Power  in  which  he  be 
lieved.  His  white  fingers  reverently  touched  the 
bread;  he  broke  it  slowly;  he  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

The  church  had  grown  quite  still.  A  butterfly  had 
drifted  in  upon  a  sunbeam  and  hovered  over  the 
communion-table,  swaying  thence  to  the  empty  pulpit, 
where  a  vase  of  white  roses  stood ;  it  was  now  so  quiet 
that  one  almost  fancied  one  could  hear  the  butterfly, — 
the  motion  of  its  wings,  the  sound  of  its  approach  to 
the  rose;  it  was  like  the  conflict  of  a  soul  with  moral 
conditions  so  delicate  that  all  sense  of  peril  is  absent. 
The  hands  of  the  minister  continued  to  stir  upon  the 
sacred  bread. 

"When  He  had  broken,"  he  said,  "He  blessed  it. 
If  there  is  any  blessing  above  all  others  that  we  most 
sorely  need,  Lord  make  us  fit  to  ask  it." 

It  was  scarcely  possible  to  say  where  speech  ended 
and  prayer  began,  so  gentle,  so  natural,  were  the 
minister's  voice  and  manner;  but  when  the  people 
found  their  own  souls  at  the  feet  of  God  they  knew 
that  his  had  led  them  there. 

It  was  now  so  still  that  a  woman's  fan  could  be 
heard  anywhere  in  the  audience-room,  and  one  of 
lace  in  the  rear  pew,  finding  itself  audible,  abruptly 
stopped  and  fell  from  a  white-gloved  hand  to  a  white 
lap.  The  belated  communicant,  who  had  crept  in 

184 


A   SACRAMENT 


during  the  pastor's  prayer,  bowed  her  face  upon  the 
rail  of  the  pew  in  front  of  her.  Her  little  white  French 
hat  touched  the  widow's  veil;  this  disturbed  Mrs. 
Alford,  and  she  moved  slightly,  making  herself  more 
comfortable  with  the  pains  of  a  worshiper  who  meant 
to  retain  her  position.  In  fact,  when  the  prayer  came 
to  an  end,  the  summer  lady  did  not  raise  her  head. 

"Lord,"  said  the  pastor,  "we  hunger.  We  starve 
for  the  love  divine,  and  for  human  love,  and  some 
times  the  one  famine  confuses  itself  with  the  other 
famine,  so  that  we  know  not  where  this  ceases  and 
where  that  begins.  There  is  one  hunger  of  the  heart, 
and  another  of  the  soul.  Feed  Thou  our  highest  which 
is  our  sorest  hunger.  If  we  starve,  let  us  starve  nobly, 
for  Christ's  sake." 

As  the  voice  of  the  pastor  sank  into  these  words  a 
shrill  sound  pierced  the  silence  of  the  village  church. 
It  was  the  whistle  of  the  Sunday  train,  shrieking 
through  the  valley;  it  halted  at  the  station,  panting 
and  protesting  at  the  stop ;  for  it  was  late.  The  air  was 
so  clear  that  one  almost  fancied  one  could  hear  the 
newspapers  slapped  off  on  the  platform  of  the  station, 
and  the  unwashed  wheels  of  the  Sunday  cab  which 
awaited  chance  passengers  from  a  secular  and  unre- 
generate  world. 

The  heresy-hunter  cleared  his  throat  as  one  who 
wished  it  to  be  recalled  that  he  disapproved  of  Sunday 
papers.  But  most  of  the  people  were  beyond  atten- 

185 


A   SACRAMENT 


tion  to  external  trifles;  each  had  gone  the  way  of  his 
own  nature  into  a  sincere  and  solemn  hour. 

Mrs.  Hermione  Alford  did  not  stir.  Her  forehead, 
bent  on  the  hard  rail  of  the  pew,  received  red  marks 
like  stigmata;  she  did  not  evade  but  wooed  the  sense 
of  physical  discomfort;  this  was  a  counter-irritant  to 
misery  with  whose  pangs  she  was  out  of  patience,  and 
out  of  courage.  She  had  not  meant  to  come  to  the 
service;  she  did  not  mean  to  share  in  its  sacred 
symbols;  she  was  where  she  was  in  spite  of  herself, 
and  whether  compelled  by  the  noblest  or  the  weakest 
in  her,  she  could  not  have  told. 

The  soft  blur  of  her  white  hat,  a  little  dark  line  of 
her  hair,  the  curve  of  her  delicate  cheek,  could  be  seen 
beyond  the  black  barrier  of  the  widow's  veil.  The 
minister  had  glanced,  but  did  not  look  at  the  summer 
parishioner. 

The  senior  deacon  and  the  heresy-hunter  distrib 
uted  the  sacred  bread.  Even  the  heresy-hunter  felt 
that  it  had  been  blessed  by  a  good  man.  The  boots 
of  the  deacon,  innocent  of  chalk  or  soapstone, 
creaked  up  and  down  the  broad  aisle.  Two  or  three 
children  who  had  wandered  in  from  the  sheds  listened 
with  awe  and  admiration  to  the  deacon's  boots;  this 
nerve-rending  sound  was  fixed  in  their  minds  and 
remained  there  for  life,  as  the  first  condition  to  the 
initiation  of  the  sacred  ceremony. 

The  boy  and  girl  had  come  from  the  sarcophagus 

1 86 


A   SACRAMENT 


in  the  graveyard,  and  hesitating,  quietly  settled  into 
an  empty  back  pew.  They  sat  thoughtfully.  No  wand 
then  the  boy  looked  at  the  girl  so  reverently  that  he 
seemed  afraid  to  look  at  all ;  but  she  gazed  at  the  table 
with  its  long  white  cloth  and  shining  silver  tankards. 

Now  the  widow  cried  behind  her  veil  as  her  old 
darned  black  glove  carried  the  little  square  of  bread 
to  her  lips ;  she  exercised  the  enviable  rights  of  char 
tered  grief  freely.  But  the  blue  eyes  of  her  daughter 
were  dry.  For  her  sorrow  she  had  no  right  to  weep. 

And  now  the  aged  deacon  received  the  symbol  from 
the  white  hand  of  his  pastor  with  humility;  and  the 
heresy-hunter  recalled  the  fact  that  the  Lord's  Supper 
was  not  a  doctrine. 

The  butterfly  had  drifted  away  from  the  roses,  and 
was  searching  the  quiet  church  like  a  fair  spirit  seek 
ing  a  fit  body,  or  a  high  impulse  trying  to  find  a  noble 
deed.  Only  the  minister  had  noticed  the  butterfly, 
and  he  now  sat  with  his  hand  above  his  eyes. 

Mrs.  Alford  had  not  moved  when  the  deacon  offered 
her  the  great  silver  plate,  now  nearly  empty  of  its 
broken  bread.  She  declined  with  a  gentle  gesture. 
The  heresy-hunter  with  the  prehistoric  face  did  not 
turn  in  the  lady's  direction.  But  the  ferret  in  his  eyes 
looked  out. 

Light,  which  moves  at  one  hundred  and  eighty -six 
thousand  miles  a  second  and  more;  electricity,  which 

187 


A   SACRAMENT 


takes  a  pace  as  inconceivable  —  are  laggards  beside 
excited  thought.  Mrs.  Alford  was  unconscious  of  the 
rate  that  hers  was  making;  she  seemed  herself  to  be 
racing  with  it,  and  able  to  estimate  the  speed  of  it 
by  the  wind  in  her  face,  like  one  in  an  observation- 
car  rushing  through  a  high  country.  In  those  few 
moments  —  they  may  have  been  fifteen  —  since  she 
came  into  the  church,  half  her  life  blew  by  her. 
It  was  as  if  everything  to  which  she  had  formed 
the  habit  of  resolutely  shutting  her  eyes  started 
out  and  stared  upon  her  —  foregrounds  that  she 
had  long  ignored,  perspective  that  she  had  actually 
forgotten.  She  dashed  like  a  reluctant  traveler 
whirled  past  scenes  which  he  had  neither  cared  nor 
dared  to  revisit  because  their  delight  was  lost  while 
their  distress  remained  —  as  pain  does  remain,  last 
ing  longer  than  joy  in  the  sensation  of  any  but  the 
superficial. 

Mrs.  Alford's  was  not  a  superficial  sensibility.  She 
could  not  "  throw  things  off, "  as  we  say.  She  did  not 
find  it  easy  to  elude  her  consciousness  of  her  personal 
tragedy.  The  heart  of  a  woman  of  her  type  is  the 
finest  photographer  in  the  world.  The  retina  of  her 
imagination  is  more  sensitive  than  that  of  the  truest 
camera,  and  her  memory  was  stored  with  inexorable 
plates;  these  she  had  spent  years  trying  in  vain  to 
break. 

One  might  say,  rather,  that  hers  was  the  retina  of 
1 88 


A   SACRAMENT 


the  Claude  Lorrain;  everything  that  it  reflected  was 
exquisite,  but  set  in  black — whichever  way  she  turned 
it,  her  fate,  or  the  forecast  of  her  fate,  looked  out  at 
her.  It  was  as  if  the  delicacy  of  her  impressions  in 
creased  her  capacity  for  misery  more  than  it  had 
enhanced  her  capaciousness  of  happiness.  In  a  word, 
it  was  so  long  since  she  had  been  happy  that  she  had 
forgotten  how  to  be.  This  was  the  more  fortunate, 
because  opportunities  for  the  exercise  of  this  lost  art 
did  not  present  themselves. 

She  belonged  to  the  great  army  of  the  disillusioned 
who  begin  by  believing  marriage  a  sacrament,  and  end 
by  feeling  it  a  profanation.  It  was  now  nearly  two 
years  since  she  had  seen  her  husband  —  or  no :  one 
day  they  had  met  at  their  lawyer's;  it  was  necessary 
for  her  to  sign  something;  she  had  done  as  she  was 
asked,  and  they  had  parted  at  the  office  door;  it  had 
occurred  to  her  to  invite  Gerald  home  to  dinner —  she 
would  have  done  as  much  for  any  old  acquaintance,— 
but,  in  the  embarrassment  of  the  moment,  she  had 
hesitated  just  long  enough  for  him  to  observe  that  he 
was  going  directly  aboard  the  steamer,  which  sailed 
at  six  in  the  morning.  So  she  had  not  said  it.  They 
shook  hands,  and  he  lifted  his  hat.  She  had  noticed 
that  his  hair  was  beginning  to  whiten  at  the  temples. 
As  she  sat  at  the  communion  service  she  found  herself 
occupied  in  trying  to  recall  whether  his  mustache 
were  still  black. 

189 


A   SACRAMENT 


Then  she  remembered  that  he  had  his  gloves  off, 
and  that  she  had  noticed  the  old  scar  on  the  third 
finger  of  the  left  hand;  he  had  splashed  it  with  hot 
sealing-wax  one  day.  She  had  on  a  rose-colored 
muslin,  and  a  spark  from  the  candle  caught  the 
dress.  What  a  cry  he  had  given  when  he  clasped 
her,  and  extinguished  the  little  blaze  against  his 
rough  coat !  He  had  loved  —  oh,  he  had  loved  her ! 
And  she  — 

The  ravages  of  her  feeling  had  been  heavy;  it  had 
harrowed  her;  she  was  a  waste,  because  overculti- 
vated,  land;  that  the  very  roots  of  tenderness  were 
dying  in  her  she  was  critically  aware. 

She  was  a  sincere  woman — she  never  posed  before 
her  own  heart — and  she  had  lately  begun  to  suspect 
in  herself  a  certain  tendency  which  she  was  quite 
capable  of  despising,  as  if  her  finer  sensibilities  were 
running  to  weeds:  as,  for  instance,  why  was  she  where 
she  was  to-day?  She  had  distinctly  purposed  not  to 
come.  What  power  unclassified  had  drawn  her  on? 
The  question  disturbed  her.  It  shot  athwart  her  rev 
erie  as  if  it  were  a  bolt  of  blue  lightning  flung  across 
a  passionate  sunset.  Her  husband's  face,  her  hus 
band's  voice,  fled  before  it  like  riven  clouds.  Then 
they  came  back,  closing  in,  massing,  blazing  higher 
than,  brighter  than,  before. 

Love  may  be  a  torch,  flickering  for  a  fete;  it  may 
be  a  domestic  brush-fire,  burning  decorously  as  long 

190 


A   SACRAMENT 


as  the  material  lasts;  it  may  be  a  conflagration  that 
runs  till  it  laps  the  edge  of  the  river  Lethe. 

Hermione  and  her  husband  had  found  the  map 
of  existence  destroyed  and  recreated  by  their  attach 
ment.  For  eight  years  they  had  believed  themselves 
to  have  secured  the  joy  everlasting.  Both  were  of 
the  order  of  souls  who  perceive  that  a  pure  and 
permanent  love  between  man  and  woman  is  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world,  and  both  believed  that 
marriage  may  offer  this  exquisite  justification  of  the 
mystery  of  living. 

How  had  they  suffered  the  blinding  vision  to  evade 
their  darkened  eyes?  Where  had  the  wonder  gone? 
How  had  it  eluded  them?  How  did  it  all  happen? 
For  the  life  of  her  lost  happiness  she  could  not 
have  told.  Bowed  there  on  the  rail  of  the  bony 
pew,  with  its  stigmata  on  her  burning  forehead,  and 
the  crape  of  the  widow's  veil  blackening  between 
herself  and  the  sacred  table  —  she  sifted  the  ashes  of 
her  life  scornfully.  For  what,  then,  had  they  lost  the 
glamour  of  the  sacred  fire  ?  What  had  disenchanted 
them?  Was  it  a  turn  of  the  head,  a  trick  of  the  eye, 
a  lapse  of  the  tongue  ?  Was  it  a  glacier  in  the  will  ? 
Was  it  a  geyser  of  the  temper  ? 

There  seemed  to  her  now,  as  she  thought  of  it,  a 
touch  of  something  half  humorous  in  her  desolation  - 
that  she  should  have  been  brought  to  the  pass  she 
was  without  the  dignity  of  a  great  tragedy.   No  moral 

191 


A   SACRAMENT 


cataclysm  had  sundered  them.  Gerald  was  fastidious 
in  his  way;  he  was  a  gentleman;  he  did  not  intrigue 
with  other  women.  The  tables  of  stone  had  not  been 
broken  between  them.  His  rendering  of  the  graven 
letters  had  been  as  steady  as  her  own.  Perhaps  in 
the  last  analysis  it  had  been  steadier,  or  at  least 
clearer.  She  found  herself  wondering  if  he,  since  their 
separation,  had  admitted  to  his  consciousness  moments 
of  weakness  such  as  she  had  known  this  last  year;  to 
do  him  justice,  she  doubted  if  he  had.  She  thought  of 
him  as  setting  his  teeth,  and  attending  to  his  business 
methodically  —  forgetting  her,  no  doubt  (oh,  yes, 
Gerald  could  forget  better  than  she  could),  but 
respecting  to  the  margin  of  his  imagination  the  tie 
which  still  bound  them.  She  did  not  believe  that  he 
had  gone  maudlin  over  his  loneliness,  or  dabbled  in 
the  clouded  spring  of  accessible  sympathies.  Whether 
this  were  true  of  Gerald  Alford  or  not,  it  was  the 
beautiful  thing  about  Hermione  that  she  thought  so. 
It  was  her  lovely  "way."  She  had  always  believed 
the  best  of  men  —  of  the  men  for  whom  she  cared. 
Her  father  was  a  commonplace  person,  but  she  had 
never  found  it  out.  Her  brother  was  a  rascal,  but  she 
had  idealized  him  until  he  died.  Marriage  had 
broken  her  heart,  and  she  and  her  husband  had 
parted,  but  she  went  on  saying,  "Gerald  would  never 
do  that,"  "Gerald  would  be  sure  to  do  this,"  as  if 
they  had  been  living  and  loving  together  still. 

192 


A   SACRAMENT 


There  had  been  no  legal  separation  at  all ;  scarcely 
a  public  scandal,  yet.  It  was  understood  that  Alford's 
business  had  become  of  a  character  which  compelled 
him  to  travel.  It  was  said  that  some  sensitiveness  to 
malarial  influences  would  not  permit  Mrs.  Alford  to 
live  in  Brazil,  and  that  her  physical  delicacy,  indeed, 
was  of  a  sort  which  forbade  frequent  sea-voyages;  in 
short,  the  social  fictions  had  been  respectably  pre 
served  up  to  this  time.  It  had  occurred  to  Hermione 
that  the  serial  novel  might  not  run  much  longer.  But 
her  minister  —  her  summer  minister  —  was  the  first 
person  to  broach  to  her  distinctly  this  unpleasant 
truth. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Alford?"  he  had  said  abruptly,  one 
day  in  May.  She  came  early  now,  earlier  than  they 
used  to  come,  to  her  summer  home.  She  had  nothing 
else  to  do.  There  was  nowhere  else  she  wanted  to  go. 
She  crept  into  the  Berkshire  cottage  like  a  hurt  thing 
that  had  been  torn  from  its  shell  and  crawls  back  to 
heal  if  it  can. 

"He  is  in  Paris  —  that  is,"  she  corrected  herself 
(she  never  could  tell  a  half-truth  to  Daniel  True), 
"he  was  when  I  heard  from  him  last." 

"And  how  long  ago,"  continued  the  pastor,  with  no 
apology  for  the  question,  "was  that?" 

"  It  is  three  months,"  she  replied,  without  hesitation 
or  resentment.  It  seemed  as  natural  for  her  to  allow 
as  it  was  for  him  to  assume  the  priestly  prerogative. 

193 


A   SACRAMENT 


"What  does  this  mean?"  demanded  the  Reverend 
Mr.  True,  authoritatively.  "  That  is,  if  you  don't 
mind  telling  me,"  he  added,  in  the  personal  tone.  She 
would  have  thought  that  she  should  mind  telling  him 
very  much  indeed.  But  she  found  her  reluctance 
suddenly  and  subtly  failing  her.  She  began,  in  point 
of  fact,  to  justify  herself. 

"I  was  miserable,"  she  urged.  "I  was  too  miser 
able  to  bear  the  disillusions  of  married  life  —  its 
disappointments.  I  was  hurt  all  the  time.  We  had 
been  very  happy  —  happier  than  most  people.  So,  I 
suppose,  we  suffered  more  when  —  Not  that  I  would 
have  you  think  I  blame  my  husband!"  She  lifted 
her  head  with  a  desolate  pride.  "I  was  as  much  to 
blame  as  he;  I  tired  him;  sometimes  he  thought  I 
nagged  him.  I  was  too  easily  wounded.  I  could  not 
overlook  little  things  as  I  might  have,  as  it  seems  to 
me  now  that  I  could." 

"Was  there  any  great — that  is,  any  greater  thing  ?  " 
asked  the  pastor,  gravely.  "Forgive  me.  I  wish  to 
help  you.  I  do  not  put  the  question  idly.  I  do  not 
want  you  to  go  into  details.  I  am  not  urging  any 
confidence  that  you  would  regret  —  nothing  that  I 
ought  not  to  hear.  But  perhaps  —  if  I  understood  a 
little  better  —  " 

The  unwedded  man  hesitated;  a  fine  change  of 
expression  ennobled  his  delicate  features. 

"  Of  course, "  he  said,  "  if  you  would  rather  not  —  " 

194 


A   SACRAMENT 


The  dreary  eyes  of  the  wife  lifted  and  fell. 

"There  was  something,"  she  admitted.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  —  " 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to!"  he  interrupted.  " Could 
you  forgive  it?"  he  persisted  gently. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  could  forgive  it  —  now." 

"Not  then?" 

"No,  not  at  the  time.  I  was  —  I  suffered  too 
much." 

Hermione,  receiving  no  reply  to  these  words,  turned 
her  beautiful  head  abruptly.  The  minister  was  look 
ing  at  her  with  a  strong  steadiness;  his  lips  were 
locked;  in  his  eyes  an  angel  seemed  to  sit  on  guard 
beside  a  tomb. 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  —  must  suffer,"  he  said,  in 
a  very  low  voice.  He  rose,  and  took  his  hat. 

"I  never  met  anything  like  it, "  began  Mrs.  Alford. 
She  was  impulsive  sometimes,  for  a  woman  of  the 
world.  "I  mean  such  sympathy  as  yours  —  not  one 
so  delicate,  and  so — so  right.  It  helps  me,  Mr.  True." 

"No,"  he  answered  sharply,  "it  does  not  help  you. 
It  is  not  helping  anybody." 

He  wheeled  and  crossed  the  room.  Then  he  came 
back.  The  woman  of  the  world  sat  with  cheeks 
scorching  like  a  girl's. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  manfully.  "I  have  blun 
dered.  I  have  spoken  without  tact.  I  am  not  accus 
tomed  to  the  surfaces  of  society — as  you  are.  I  am 


A   SACRAMENT 


trying  to  do  the  best  thing,  to  find  the  right  way, 
that  Js  all.  I  am  afraid  the  expression  of  sympathy  is 
not  the  way." 

"Have  I  ever  sought  it?"  she  cried  proudly. 

"You  have  never  sought  anything,"  he  answered, 
with  a  reverent  inclination  of  his  head. 

From  that  hour  the  subject  of  her  unhappy  mar 
riage  had  never  been  mentioned  by  either.  It  was  the 
first  time,  and  the  last.  The  memory  of  it  wavered 
between  them  like  a  tendril  without  a  trellis,  unsus- 
tained  and  groping,  quivering  in  mid-air. 

Yet  Hermione  found  herself  able  to  recall  the  inter 
view  without  discomfort.  She  was  forced  to  suspect 
that  a  power  not  herself  had  determined  that  she 
should.  Aching  under  the  dislocation  of  her  painful 
position  (she  neither  wife  nor  divorcee),  she  was 
accustomed  to  hold  herself  haughtily.  She  was  used 
to  averting  the  admiration  of  men;  she  distanced 
their  society  and  denied  their  friendship.  It  had  been 
her  habit  to  protect  them.  She  perceived  that  this 
country  parson,  this  inexperienced,  unmarried  man, 
was  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  It  hardly  occurred 
to  her  that  he  might  be  guarding  her. 

At  the  communion  service  she  thought  of  these 
things  without  fear,  and  without  reproach.  She  did 
not  lift  her  eyes  to  the  table  with  the  white  cloth  and 
glittering  silver;  she  prayed  that  there  should  be 
nothing  in  her  heart  which  she  must  veil  before  that 

196 


A   SACRAMENT 


sacred  sight.  The  pastor  had  now  arisen  to  bless  the 
cup.  A  fold  of  the  widow's  veil  swept  against  Mrs. 
Alford's  white  hat  and  soft,  thin  cheek.  She  did  not 
move.  A  late  communicant,  coming  in  quietly,  had 
taken  a  seat  beside  her;  but  her  consciousness  could 
hardly  be  said  to  have  grasped  the  circumstance. 
She  sat  remote  from  the  trivial,  devout  and  sweet. 

The  minister  began  to  pray: 

' '  Lord,  Thou  hast  given  us  the  cup  of  life.  We  have 
drunk  deeply  of  it  —  not  as  Thou  wouldst,  but  as  we 
willed." 

The  stranger,  near  the  summer  parishioner,  had 
been  sitting  straight  and  stiff.  At  these  words  he 
bowed  his  head,  and  his  forehead  fell  reverently  upon 
the  rail  beside  Hermione.  As  he  did  so,  something 
indeterminate  emanated  from  his  presence  —  a  subtle 
medium  —  one  could  not  say  to  which  of  the  senses  it 
would  have  appealed,  if  to  any.  Hermione  thought 
of  the  N-ray,  which  is  said  to  assume  the  hues  of  a 
personality,  of  a  given  emotion  or  passion.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  if  she  looked,  she  should  see  the  color  that 
she  felt  streaming  between  herself  and  this  unknown 
man.  Her  mind  slipped  from  the  sacred  symbols. 
A  fierce  human  pang  drove  through  and  through  her. 
The  remembrance  of  her  Lord,  the  prayer  of  her 
pastor,  the  aspiration  of  her  religious  nature  —  what 
were  they?  What  could  they  have  meant  a  moment 
ago?  She  was  rent  with  that  which  extinguished 

197 


A   SACRAMENT 


heaven  and  earth.  What  had  befallen  her  ?  Was  it  a 
memory,  or  a  prophecy  ?  A  link  of  thought  ?  or  a  tint 
of  feeling  ?  She  was  thrilling  with  a  consciousness  of 
buried  joy,  a  sense  of  its  infinite  resources,  of  its 
deserted  hopes.  In  that  country  church  she  found 
herself  confronted  with  a  miracle.  Her  married  love 
arose  with  all  its  grave-clothes  on  and  looked  at 
her. 

Panting  with  her  emotion,  she  turned  her  head  and 
pushed  the  widow's  veil  aside,  that  she  might  gain  air 
(for  she  found  it  difficult  to  breathe)  and  still  not 
reveal  her  agitated  face.  The  worshiper  beside  her 
moved  when  she  did,  and  his  hand,  which  was 
clenched  upon  his  knee,  opened  and  relaxed.  It  was 
the  left  hand,  and  Hermione  saw  upon  its  third 
finger,  just  above  the  wedding-ring,  a  deep  white 
scar;  such  as  might  be  made  by  a  drop  of  burning 
wax.  .  .  . 

The  village  church  spun  and  vanished  about  her. 
With  rose  on  her  dress,  and  rose  in  her  heart,  and 
youth  in  her  veins,  she  stood  in  a  whirlwind  of  fire. 
Arms  clasped  her,  lips  touched  her,  passionate  words 
adjured  her.  She  could  feel  the  rough  nap  of  her 
husband's  woolen  coat  against  which  she  was  held. 
She  thought  she  had  cried  out  audibly:  "Gerald!  Did 
you  burn  your  hands  ?"  But  her  lips  had  not  moved — 
no,  nor  a  muscle  of  her  fair  body.  The  lace  fan  fell 
from  her  fingers;  that  was  all.  The  butterfly  drifted 

198 


A   SACRAMENT 


towards  the  flowers  on  the  pulpit  and  swayed  away. 
The  homely  scent  of  the  syringas  floated  in.  The 
praying  voice  of  the  pastor  filled  the  silent  church. 

There  had  been  but  one  passenger  that  afternoon  on 
the  Sunday  train,  and  when  the  newspapers  were 
slapped  off  and  tossed  upon  the  box  of  the  muddy  cab, 
its  driver  had  leisurely  approached  the  traveler. 

"You  won't  find  her  to  home,"  he  had  said,  with 
the  familiarity  of  a  fellow  townsman.  "She'll  be 
to  meetin'.  It's  communion  afternoon.  Drive  you 
up?" 

"I  '11  walk,"  replied  the  passenger,  shortly.  He 
had,  in  fact,  taken  his  time  about  it.  Once  on  the 
way  he  had  stopped  under  a  chestnut-tree  and  drawn 
a  letter  from  his  pocket.  This  he  read  and  reread, 
with  the  pertinacity  of  a  man  who  already  knew  its 
contents  by  heart,  and  who  was  perplexed  or  pro 
foundly  moved  by  them.  He  replaced  the  letter  care 
fully  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  walked  on  more 
rapidly.  As  he  walked  he  felt  for  the  crackling  paper 
occasionally,  to  make  sure  that  it  was  there.  Thus  the 
letter  ran :  - 

"Dear  Alford:  —  I  have  that  to  say  which  a  man 
does  not  usually  say  to  another  —  and  it  is  not  easy 
to  do.  I  have  decided  that  I  ought  to  do  it. 

"I  am  only  your  summer  pastor,  and  you  may  not 
view  as  I  do  the  obligation  under  which  I  feel  myself 

199 


A   SACRAMENT 


to  the  most  transient  of  my  people  —  the  responsi 
bility,  I  mean,  to  be  of  service  to  them,  if  I  can. 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  not  easy  to  explain  to  a  man 

who  was  never  in  the  pulpit.   No  layman  knows  how 

a  pastor  feels  about  such  matters.   But  you  and  I 

are  more  than  pastor  and  parishioner;  we  are  friends 

-  so  here  it  is,  Alford,  and  out  with  it. 

"I  am  writing  this  letter  with  the  distinct  purpose 
of  asking  you  to  return  to  your  wife,  and  I  do  not 
qualify  in  any  way,  nor  do  I  apologize  for  this,  as  you 
will  justly  say,  extraordinary  request.  I  make  it;  I 
repeat  it;  I  urge  it;  and  there  it  stands.  I  do  not  even 
explain  the  process  by  which  I  have  arrived  at  the 
making  of  it.  I  will  go  farther,  and  say  that  I  urge 
your  return  without  delay. 

"What  has  separated  you  two  I  do  not  know.  We 
have  exchanged  but  a  few  words,  she  and  I,  upon  the 
subject.  When  I  see  you  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  wish  it, 
what  these  were.  Mrs.  Alford  is  a  reserved  woman; 
she  bears  her  painful  position  with  dignity;  she  does 
not  babble  of  her  miseries.  But  she  cannot  conceal 
the  effect  that  they  are  having  upon  her. 

"  It  is  true  that  I  am  —  I  do  not  need  you  to  remind 
me  of  it  —  a  solitary  man.  The  sacred  joys,  the 
intricate  perplexities  of  married  life  I  have  not  expe 
rienced,  and  perhaps  I  never  shall.  Is  it  not  possible 
that  for  this  very  reason  I  am  more,  rather  than  less, 
qualified  to  recall  you  to  its  obligations  and  its  privi- 

200 


A   SACRAMENT 


leges  ?  To  me  these  seem,  even  in  the  least  successful 
marriage,  so  inexorable,  so  valuable,  that  I  find  it 
hard  to  understand  how  a  man  can  disregard  them. 
They  seem  to  me  worth  the  world  and  all  that  is 
therein. 

"Alford!  come  back  to  her.  Don't  wait  to  ques 
tion  why.  Come  at  once,  and  ask  no  questions.  Why, 
man!  you  vowed  to  guard  her  —  the  tenderest,  the 
most  love-needy  of  women  —  you  know  what  she 
is.  How  could  you  set  her  drifting  like  this?  If  she 
had  not  been  the  noblest,  as  she  is  the  tenderest;  if 
her  own  soul  had  not  been  a  flame  of  white  fire 
scorching  every  unworthy  thing  or  thought  out  of  her 
presence  —  to  what  accidents  of  the  sensibilities 
might  you  have  exposed  her  ? 

"It  is  these  exquisite  natures,  these  sensitives,  who 
are  most  in  peril.  I  don't  mean  —  a  man  would  be 
a  savage  who  could  conceive  of  their  moral  danger  in 
his  lowest  thought,  —  but  I  mean  the  peril  of  accumu 
lated  pain,  easy  to  prevent,  impossible  to  cure.  A 
woman  of  her  kind  can  bear  only  about  so  much 
loneliness.  I  tell  you  she  has  borne  all  she  can. 

"Alford,  I  give  you  my  word,  as  your  friend  and 
hers,  that  she  loves  you;  perhaps  more,  but  not  less, 
than  she  did.  I  tell  you  we  ministers  —  yes,  even  we 
unwedded  ones  —  may  be  better  equipped  than  you 
suppose  to  offer  counsel  to  people  in  positions  like 
yours. 

201 


A   SACRAMENT 


"The  Protestant  Church  has  its  own  confessional. 
I  am  not  without  my  experience  in  that. 

"I  do  not  think  that  Mrs.  Alford  is  well  this  spring. 
I  am  confident  that  she  is  losing  strength.  She  is 
very  unhappy.  I  don't  care  what  the  causes  of  your 
separation  were;  it  makes  no  difference  who  was  right 
or  who  was  wrong;  nothing  makes  any  difference. 
The  wrong  is  that  you  two  should  remain  apart.  The 
right  is  that  you  should  be  together.  I  ask  you  to 
take  the  next  steamer;  and  I  am, 

Your  friend  and  minister, 

DANIEL  TRUE. 

"P.  S.  —  She  does  not  know  that  I  have  written 
this  letter.  You  will  do  as  you  please,  of  course,  but 
perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  that  she  should  not  know." 

The  reverent  house  was  still.  The  minister  stood 
with  the  silver  goblet  in  his  hand.  His  praying  voice 
was  distinct  and  low.  It  was  long  remembered  among 
his  people  that  it  vibrated  that  day  with  strange 
emotion. 

"Lord,  make  us  less  unworthy  to  touch  this  cup 
with  our  lips  —  our  lips,  that  err  so  often  and  are 
so  weak.  They  tremble  as  they  drink.  Make  us  fit 
for  the  sacrifices  and  the  privileges  of  love  —  the 
heavenly  love,  and  the  earthly.  Teach  us  its  sanctity. 
Qualify  us  for  its  preciousness  and  its  purity  —  " 

In  the  rear  pew,  empty  of  all  but  its  two  communi- 
202 


A   SACRAMENT 


cants,  a  man's  hand  with  a  scar  on  it  slid  out  timidly 
and  appealed  to  the  woman  sitting  beside  him.  She 
saw  that  it  shook;  it  stole  to  her  lap  and  lay  suppliant 
upon  her  knee.  She  had  now  raised  her  face,  tear- 
discolored,  and  with  the  stigmata  on  her  forehead. 
When  he  saw  how  worn  she  was,  how  changed,  a 
choked  word  fought  for  articulation,  and  fell  defeated 
in  the  listening  silence.  She  thought  he  had  tried  to 
say,- 


She  did  not  turn  her  head;  but  her  hand  crept 
towards  him  and  his  closed  upon  it. 

Above  the  tall  figure  of  the  pastor,  the  white 
butterfly  was  circling  delicately;  it  hovered  over  his 
head  as  if  it  sought  and  loved  him.  A  fine  imagination 
might  have  recalled  the  dove  that  hovered  above  the 
head  of  another  Preacher  as  he  stood  mid  -stream  in 
Jordan  receiving  the  chrism  of  his  life's  work. 

The  voice  of  the  minister  sank  to  a  supreme 
solemnity:  "Behold  I  give  you  this  cup.  Drink  ye  all 
ofit." 

The  people  stirred  and  lifted  praying  faces.  The 
deacon  and  the  heresy-hunter  took  the  silver  goblet 
meekly  from  the  pastor's  hand.  The  heresy  -hunter 
did  not  remember  if  anything  or  anybody  were 
"  sound."  The  deacon's  boots  creaked  softly  down 
the  main  aisle.  The  widow  wiped  her  eyes,  and  threw 
her  crape  veil  back.  Her  daughter  did  not  look 

203 


A  SACRAMENT 


towards  the  pulpit;  she  sat  with  downcast,  patient 
lashes.  The  boy  and  girl  across  the  aisle  exchanged 
a  gentle  look,  and  honored  one  another;  they  thought, 
"Some  day  this  good  man  shall  marry  us."  Each 
heart  received  its  own  sacrament,  and  went  its  own 
way. 

Two  communicants  stayed  yet  with  heads  bowed 
and  faces  hidden.  But  their  hands  were  clasped. 
When  the  silver  chalice  reached  them,  last  of  all,  it 
was  nearly  empty;  a  few  heart -red  drops  remained. 
The  man  and  the  woman  put  the  shining  brim  to 
their  lips ;  they  found  the  holy  wine  and  drank  all  of  it. 

But  the  minister  sat  with  his  face  covered  from  the 
people,  and  his  heart  open  to  his  God. 


'  TAMMYSHANTY ' 

THE  boy  curled  astride  the  bowsprit  of  the  schooner, 
and  looked  over  into  the  thick  water. 

There  are  certain  defects  in  early  education  of 
which  one  is  so  poignantly  conscious  at  so  tender  an 
age  that  they  might  as  well  be,  since  they  seem, 
irreparable. 

Not  to  have  experienced  more  than  a  term  or  two 
at  night  school,  not  to  be  able  to  offer  evidential 
parents  to  society,  not  to  have  any  home  more  concrete 
than  the  wharves,  the  bridges,  the  railroad  yard,  or  a 
stray  bed  at  the  newsboys'  lodge,  and  not  to  command 
an  appreciable  income  —  these  are  inferior  circum 
stances  about  which  one  does  not  concern  one's  self. 
Not  to  know  how  to  swim  —  that  is  the  irrevocable, 
that  is  the  fatal  thing.  There  is  about  this  affliction 
an  air  of  finality  against  which  human  hope  cannot 
wrestle.  The  boy  felt  that  it  would  be  easier  to  get 
into  prison  and  out  again  than  it  would  ever  be  to  get 
into  the  lake  and  out. 

Once  he  had  ventured  to  "do  time"  like  a  man, 
but  he  had  escaped  like  a  monkey.  Once  he  had  tried 
to  swim,  and  it  had  taken  two  doctors  and  two  hours 
to  resuscitate  his  valuable  life.  He  had  long  since 

205 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


come  to  look  upon  criminal  careers  and  nautical 
sports  as  equally  serious  and  objectionable.  But  the 
rebound  of  attraction  to  that  which  one  has  renounced 
is  as  inevitable  as  the  nature  of  gutta-percha.  The 
boy  hung  upon  the  bowsprit  and  dared  himself  to 
drop. 

"I  stump  yer!"  he  said. 

The  schooner  was  silent,  and  to  all  intents  empty. 
The  cook  who  was  left  in  charge  of  her  slept  the  sleep 
of  too  much  and  too  recent  shore  leave.  The  wharf, 
deserted,  blistered  in  the  scorching  noon.  An  ore 
barge  that  had  lain  alongside  was  laboring  out  in 
charge  of  a  tug  which  never  washed  its  face.  There 
had  been  a  couple  of  men  fishing  in  a  boat,  but  these 
had  rowed  away. 

A  pauper  dog  sat  on  a  pile  of  lumber  to  view  die 
scenery;  but  he  had  a  misanthropic  and  preoccupied 
air;  he  did  not  notice  the  boy.  There  was  not  so  much 
as  a  policeman,  to  say, " Move  on,  now!" 

The  child  had  taken  off  his  clothes,  excepting  for  a 
rag  of  underwear,  and  looked  like  a  crab,  half  in,  half 
out  of  its  shell.  He  clung  with  a  desperate  daring, 
born  of  his  conscious  timidity,  peeping  over  into  the 
black -green  depths;  these  seemed  as  solid  as  mala 
chite,  and  as  impenetrable.  He  hung  by  one  dirty 
hand,  then  by  the  other  —  by  two  grimy  feet,  then  by 
one  —  then  by  all  fours;  by  his  chin,  on  his  stomach, 
by  anything,  on  anywhere,  unable  to  plunge,  unable  to 

206 


TAMMYSHANTY  " 


refuse  to  plunge  —  a  grotesque  little  image  of  irres 
olution.   No  observant  deity  interfered  with  it. 

Now,  the  bowsprit  was  shiny  and  slippery;  and  the 
boy  was  sprawly  and  not  very  strong;  he  had  not  had 
much  to  eat  for  a  few  days  —  in  fact,  he  seldom  did 
have  very  much. 

It  would  not  have  been  easy  to  say  which  came 
first,  the  splash  or  the  cry.  Without  intention  to  defy 
the  suicide  laws  of  his  paternal  state,  the  lad  was  in 
the  water,  whence  a  final  trapeze  performance  sus 
tained  upon  one  foot  and  one  finger  had  hurled  him. 

He  dropped,  and  sank,  and  rose,  and  shrieked. 
But  the  cook  who  had  too  much  shore  leave  did  not 
turn  in  his  bunk  in  the  hot  fo'castle.  The  boy  sank, 
and  rose  again,  and  this  time  he  did  not  shriek. 

His  hair  was  red  —  the  red  that  one  might  expect 
of  a  tiger  lily  crossed  with  a  dahlia  —  the  live,  deep- 
bodied  red,  touched  with  orange  and  flaming.  As  he 
came  up  his  head  flared  on  the  black  water  like  a 
torch  sputtering  before  it  should  be  extinguished. 
He  threw  up  his  little  thin,  naked  arms.  As  he  went 
down  he  felt  himself  gripped,  and  after  a  while  slapped 
in  the  face  by  something. 

The  pauper  dog,  who  had  been  cynically  regarding 
the  lake,  turned  his  neck  slowly  to  look  at  the  drown 
ing  boy  —  but  after  that  he  did  nothing  slow.  He 
sprang,  he  leaped,  he  plunged,  he  swam;  each  impres 
sive  motion  as  swift  as  a  noble  feeling.  Only  a 

207 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


kinetoscope  could  have  followed  the  movements  of 
the  flying,  battling  creature.  He  was  not  a  handsome 
dog,  but  the  beauty  of  the  merciful  nature  was  in  him ; 
its  grand  unconsciousness,  its  splendid  disregard  of 
self.  To  these  things  a  muscle  responds,  as  well  as  a 
mind. 

The  shore  officer  who  ran  down  to  the  wharf  felt 
the  moisture  start  in  his  experienced  eyes  as  he  saw 
the  sight.  The  two  men  in  the  boat  rowed  back  with 
tremendous  strokes,  shouting:  — 

"Good  dog!  Good  fellow!  Have  him,  sir!  Get  him, 
sir!" 

The  cook  waked,  and  staggered  up  the  companion- 
way,  and  said :  - 

"Damn!" 

But  the  boy  and  the  dog  said  nothing  at  all — the  one 
because  he  was  too  weak  and  the  other  because  he 
was  too  busy.  The  child  had  resigned  himself  instinc 
tively  to  his  rescuer,  and  did  not  struggle.  The 
pauper  dog  had  seized  the  drowning  lad  by  his  little 
ragged  underwear,  and  tugged  at  that  stolidly,  pulling 
and  treading  water  with  his  paws. 

A  dreadful  fact  had  now  forced  itself  upon  the 
animal's  intelligence  —  either  he  was  too  small  or  the 
boy  was  too  large.  In  a  general  way  he  had  always 
observed  that  there  were  bigger  dogs  than  he,  but  he 
had  never  been  convinced  that  he  was  not  their  equal, 
or  superior,  when  it  came  to  the  point.  When  he 

208 


"TAMMYSHANTY 


found  that  he  could  not  support  the  weight  of  the  lad, 
an  intense  mortification  overcame  him.  Now  morti 
fication,  when  it  does  not  crush,  stimulates,  and  the 
dog's  body,  fighting  not  to  be  drawn  under  by  the 
human  body,  became  brain  all  over  where  it  was  not 
heart,  and  heart  wherever  it  was  not  brain. 

The  animal  perceived  a  chance  —  his  only  one  - 
and  took  it.  A  rope's  end  trailed  from  the  rail  of  the 
schooner  and  writhed  like  a  snake  in  the  water.  The 
dog  seized  and  dragged  the  snake.  No  man  who  saw 
it  could  say  afterwards  how  it  was  done;  but  every 
stupid,  helpless,  laggard  human  of  them  agreed  that 
the  dog  and  the  rope  united  before  the  rope  and 
the  boy  did.  One  little  purple  hand  reached,  and 
missed,  and  rose,  and  clutched  —  and  clung.  The  lad 
sprawled  dangling;  the  cook,  swearing,  held  down  his 
drunken  arms. 

But  the  two  in  the  boat  rowed  up  on  a  spurt,  and 
the  Good  Angel  of  the  Gamin  (if  there  be  such  a 
minister  of  grace)  ordained  that  they  should  not  be 
too  late.  The  fishermen  jerked  the  little  fellow  off 
the  rope  and  in  upon  the  thwarts,  where  he  lay 
dripping  and  lobster  red.  Then,  pausing  only  to  let 
off  a  curse  or  two  upon  the  cook,  they  started  back 
to  the  wharf  with  their  passengers. 

When  they  had  covered  a  considerable  space  of 
fluent  malachite  it  occurred  to  them  in  a  leisurely  way 
to  look  back.  A  little  brown  spot  undulated  through 

209 


TAMMYSHANTY " 


the  water  at  their  wake;  slowly,  as  if  it  found  difficulty 
in  moving.  One  of  the  rowers  asked :  — 

" Where's  the  dog,  Jim?" 

"Great  Scott!"  said  Jim.  "That  must  be  him. 
Looks  kinder  tired,  don't  he,  Bill?" 

"Nigh  petered  out, "  admitted  Bill  contritely.  " Put 
about,  an'  be  quick,  you! " 

With  swift  and  powerful  oars  the  two  men  put  about, 
and  brought  up  against  the  dog,  who  was  swimming 
feebly,  as  if  exhausted  by  his  late  exertion. 

So  Bill  penitently  pulled  him  aboard,  and  Jim  said, 
"Good  fellow!  "  and  the  boat  resumed  her  course  to 
the  wharf.  The  boy  had  crawled  from  the  thwarts 
to  the  bottom,  and  lay  sputtering  and  shivering;  he 
did  not  say  "  Good  fellow"  to  anybody,  either  man  or 
dog.  When  the  men  had  spilled  their  passengers  upon 
the  wharf  they  rowed  away  about  their  business, 
nodding,  and  reprimanding  the  boy:  — 

"Don't  do  it  again,  you!" 

The  child  blinked  at  them  stupidly.  His  purple 
lips  opened  and  moved  several  times,  but  nothing  of 
value  to  the  world  came  from  them;  he  did  not  know 
how  to  thank  anybody  for  a  kindness;  in  his  whole 
life  he  had  never  received  enough  to  learn  the  art. 

The  fishermen  rowed  off.  The  cook  on  the 
schooner  swore  at  the  boy  for  a  few  minutes,  and  went 
below  to  finish  his  nap.  The  wharf  officer  came  up 
and  patted  the  dog,  and  shook  the  boy,  and  told  him 

2IO 


«  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


to  move  on  when  he  got  dry.  Then  he,  too,  went 
away. 

The  boy  and  the  dog  remained  upon  the  wharf; 
dripping  and  shivering,  they  eyed  each  other  cau 
tiously.  The  dog  saw  a  red  head  and  freckles,  a 
purple  human  crab,  and  a  stealthy  human  grin  to 
which  he  felt  an  inclination  to  respond.  The  boy  saw 
an  Irish  terrier.  He  was  a  mongrel,  and  of  a  con 
siderable  size;  his  tail  was  stubbed  to  a  humorous 
shortness,  but  his  ears  were  uncut;  the  shock  of  hair 
above  his  eyes  was  larger  and  thicker  than  usual,  and 
gave  to  the  slow  imagination  of  the  lad  the  impression 
of  a  tam-o'-shanter  cap.  The  dog's  eyes  were  fine  and 
sad.  At  the  moment  they  gleamed  with  something 
between  pride  and  fear.  The  animal  seemed  to  be 
uncertain  whether  he  should  expect  to  be  praised  or 
beaten  for  the  deed  that  he  had  done.  He  regarded 
the  boy  with  the  alert  wariness  that  one  sees  some 
times  in  the  eyes  of  an  experienced  old  Irishman  who 
has  met  a  new  type  of  employer.  After  some  silent 
reflection  the  boy  cautiously  observed :  - 

" Hullo!  "  He  had  something  of  the  diffidence  that 
he  once  felt  when  he  talked  with  a  little  deaf  mute.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  the  dumb  dog  had  more  ways  of 
speaking  than  the  dumb  child.  Tail,  eyes,  ears,  tongue, 
throat,  each  and  all  knew  how  to  listen  and  to  answer. 
The  boy  felt  that  he  and  the  dog  already  experienced 
conversation.  With  growing  confidence  he  repeated: 

211 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


"  Hullo!" 

"  Hullo  yourself,"  barked  the  dog. 

"Hully  gee,"  said  the  boy. 

"Hully  gee,"  returned  the  dog. 

"Cold,  ain't  it?  You  bet!" 

"You  bet,"  rejoined  the  dog. 

"Deep,  warn't  it?  Darn  deep,"  Suggested  the  boy. 

"Darned  deep,"  agreed  the  dog. 

"Say,"  said  the  boy  slowly,  "I  hain't  never  had 
nobody  do  nothin'  for  me  like  you  done." 

To  this  the  terrier  did  not  reply,  but  the  experi 
enced  Celt  in  his  eyes  came  out  and  scruntinized  the 
lad,  as  if  he  weighed  the  probable  meaning  of  the 
words. 

"You  ain't  no  relation,  nuther, "  added  the  boy.  A 
flash  in  the  face  of  the  Irish  dog  seemed  to  retort? 
"Doncher  be  too  sure  of  that." 

Now  the  boy  hesitatingly  extended  a  little  dripping 
hand,  and  laid  it  on  the  terrier's  drenched  tam-o'- 
shanter.  The  child  could  not  remember  that  he  had 
ever  caressed  anything,  even  a  dog  or  a  kitten;  and  he 
did  not  know  how.  The  dog  recognized  the  attention 
by  a  pleasant  wag  of  his  too-short  tail. 

"Say,"  said  the  boy,  "you  V  me  might  be  pals." 

The  dog  assented  politely. 

"I  hain't  got  no  partikkelar  place  to  put  up," 
admitted  the  boy,  by  way  of  apology. 

The  obvious  reply,  "I  hain't  none  myself,"  did  not 

212 


TAMMYSHANTY " 


come  from  the  dog.   The  process  of  thought  was  too 
complicated. 

"Was  you  ever  hungry?"  asked  the  boy. 

The  terrier  threw  up  his  dripping  head,  and 
laughed. 

"I  be  myself,  sometimes,"  explained  the  boy. 
"But  somethin'  or  nothin',  half's  yourn.  See?" 

"I  see,"  said  the  dog. 

"Me  name,"  observed  the  boy  incidentally,  "is 
Peter  Roosevelt  Tammany." 

The  dog  permitted  himself  a  look  of  pained  per 
plexity. 

"But  they  calls  me  Jack  the  Marineer.  That's  cos 
I  can't  swim.  Me  common  Monday  edition  name  is 
Jacket.  Got  any  name  of  yer  own?  " 

The  dog  hung  his  wet  head  with  embarrassment. 

"How's  Tammyshanty ? "  asked  the  boy. 

The  dog  uttered  a  hilarious  howl.  Jacket  hesitated 
for  a  reply,  instinctively  seeking  something  more 
serious  than  profane.  Now  and  then,  at  Christmas 
time,  he  had  wandered  into  Sunday-school,  and  he 
raked  his  memory  for  a  sacred  phrase. 

"Amen,"  he  said,  after  some  thought. 

"Amen,"  replied  the  dog.  The  shivering  lad  sol 
emnly  put  his  arm  about  the  neck  of  the  drenched 
and  shaking  animal,  and  whistled  something  haugh 
tily,  as  if  he  had  been  the  owner  of  large  private  ken 
nels.  The  terrier  leaped  and  sprang  to  the  sound. 

213 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


The  boy  hunted  up  his  ragged  clothes,  and  he  and  the 
dog  passed  soberly  up  the  wharf  together. 

In  the  prelude  to  any  union  of  spirits  there  is  a 
solemn  moment;  and  something  of  the  seriousness  of 
an  intimate  relation  settled  upon  the  gamin  and  the 
mongrel,  as  they  trotted  into  the  city  and  disappeared 
from  the  lenient  eye  of  the  wharf  officer,  who  smiled, 
as  if  he  had  heard  a  good  story  which  might  bear 
repeating. 

Love  is  a  variety  in  unity,  and  we  hear  much,  but 
not  too  much,  about  it.  We  read  forever  of  the  love 
of  man  and  woman,  and  the  love  of  a  mother  for  a 
child ;  we  study  love  as  the  chief  lesson  of  life,  and  the 
choice  material  of  art.  In  the  great  heart  of  human 
feeling  at  whose  beats  we  listen,  have  we  thought  it 
quite  worth  while  to  count  the  love  of  a  boy  for  a  dog  ? 
A  friendless  boy  for  a  homeless  dog?  One  should 
add:  A  loveless  boy  for  an  unloved  dog? 

Jacket  the  gamin  and  Tarn  o'  Shanter  the  terrier 
came  together  in  one  strong  dramatic  moment  and 
united  like  rain-drops,  or  waves,  or  flame.  What  had 
life  been  to  either  without  the  other?  In  a  week,  in  a 
day,  it  became  impossible  to  imagine.  The  outcast 
animal,  longing  always  for  an  unknown  master,  ac 
cepted  the  sweet  servitude  rapturously.  The  desolate 
child,  knowing  neither  the  name  nor  the  fact  of  love, 
he  who  had  no  human  tie,  and  knew  no  human  ten- 

214 


"TAMMYSHANTY 


derness,  received  with  almost  incredible  emotion  the 
allegiance  of  the  dog.  The  swish  of  a  stubby  tail,  the 
kiss  of  a  pink  tongue,  the  clasp  of  scrawny  paws, 
the  mute  worship  of  dark,  pursuant  eyes  —  these  be 
came  the  events  of  a  day,  and  mounted  to  the  romance 
of  existence.  For  such  signs  that  he  was  dear  to  some 
thing  the  lad  watched  with  an  idealization  that  was 
well-nigh  poetic;  and  for  such  cumulative  evidence 
that  anything  was  dear  to  him,  he  lived.  A  few  men, 
but  not  many,  remember  or  understand  the  capacity 
for  affection  in  the  soul  of  the  boy.  Behind  the 
rough  bark  what  fine  sap  flows!  Below  the  blazonry, 
the  bluff,  the  vulgarity,  if  you  will,  of  a  neglected  lad, 
what  gentle,  what  delicate  fibres  hide! 

The  gamin  acquired  that  splendid  fortune  which 
may  be  the  supreme  ennobler  of  a  human  creature  - 
he  had  experienced  a  great  passion.  Prince  or  poet 
may  live  and  die  and  miss  it,  or  even  never  know  that 
he  has  missed  it.  Jacket  the  newsboy  had  found  it, 
and  recognized  the  fact.  Everything  that  he  felt, 
everything  that  he  had  was  the  pauper  dog's  —  the 
child's  poor  corner  in  the  attic  of  the  tenement  where 
he  had  become  a  lodger  because  he  felt  that  Tam  o' 
Shanter  needed  a  home  and  shelter;  the  scantiest 
meals  that  ever  were  earned  out  of  a  bad  day's 
business,  or  the  biggest  that  good  luck  gave  a  fellow 
now  and  then  —  half  of  everything  there  was  went 
to  the  patient,  snuggling  terrier,  who  never  begged, 

215 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


who  never  grabbed,  who  ate  silently,  it  seemed  under 
protest,  when  the  larder  was  low.  The  first  quarter 
that  the  lad  could  save  gave  the  dog  a  strap  collar, 
laboriously  marked  in  indelible  ink  with  a  master's 
name  and  street  and  number.  One  day  a  deluded 
philanthropist  who  had  inquired  into  the  circum 
stances  gave  two  dollars  to  license  the  dog.  The 
philanthropist  was  an  old  man,  with  an  old-fashioned 
gray  beard,  and  a  water-proof  coat;  he  did  not  look 
like  every  other  man;  he  was  an  officer  in  some 
society  that  occupied  itself  with  the  reduction  of 
human  cruelty;  but  that  the  street  child  could  not 
know,  nor  would  he  have  understood  it  if  he  could. 

Among  the  recorded  good  deeds  of  many  serious 
years  it  may  be  doubted  if  the  gray  man  in  the  water 
proof  coat  had  ever  done  a  wilder,  kinder  act  than 
when  he  flung  two  dollars  into  the  bottomless  sea  of 
gamin  life,  and  trusted  an  unwatched  boy  to  spend  it 
for  the  protection  of  an  unlicensed  dog. 

When  Jacket  returned  from  the  city  hall  he  lifted 
his  red  head  proudly.  He  had  become  a  property 
holder;  Tammyshanty  was  a  tax-payer;  both  were 
citizens;  they  celebrated  the  event  by  an  extravagant 
supper.  They  bought  a  big  bone  with  much  meat  on 
it,  cooked  it  between  two  stones  and  an  old  piece  of 
funnel  in  a  vacant  lot,  and  divided  the  consequences. 
In  the  development  of  their  mutual  affection  the  two 
tried  to  interchange  tastes,  if  not  natures.  Tammy- 

216 


TAMMYSHANTY 


shanty  would  have  lived  on  apples  and  potatoes  (to 
which  he  cultivated  a  hopeless  objection)  for  his 
master's  sake.  The  lad  would  have  eaten  bones,  if 
he  could,  for  the  dog's. 

That  night  they  slept  ecstatically,  Tammyshanty 
upon  the  foot  of  his  master's  ragged  bed.  A  dozen 
times  a  night,  whether  asleep  or  awake,  the  boy  felt 
about  with  his  foot  to  make  quite  sure  that  the  dog 
was  there.  In  cold  weather  he  covered  Tammy- 
shanty  with  his  own  ragged  coat.  With  some  vague 
reminiscence  of  his  too-brief  Sunday-school  existence, 
he  had  taught  the  terrier  to  say  his  prayers  at  night. 
When  one  cried  "Amen!  "  in  a  deep,  religious  voice, 
Tammyshanty  barked,  and  jumped  into  bed.  In 
the  morning  the  two  kissed  rapturously,  but  some 
times  sadly,  for  it  was  not  always  safe  or  possible 
to  take  Tammyshanty  upon  a  journalistic  career  in 
the  crowded  crossings  of  Newspaper  Row.  The  dog 
was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  corner  of  the  alley 
with  the  newsboy,  and  returning  home  alone.  There, 
on  the  broken  steps  of  the  tenement,  he  sat,  a  statue 
of  a  dog,  whom  neither  fights  nor  fires,  kicks  nor 
caresses  could  allure,  and  waited  for  the  lad.  If  it 
were  very  stormy  or  cold,  Tammyshanty  climbed  to 
the  attic  bedroom,  and  watched  soberly  through  a 
broken  window,  listening  for  a  whistle  or  a  call  at 
which  the  heart  of  a  dog  must  leap  like  climbing 

foam. 

217 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


"Peppers!  Peppers!  Tammyshanty!  Oh  —  oo  — 
ee !  Tammyshantee ! ' ' 

Down  the  steps  or  down  the  stairs,  across  the  alley, 
up  the  alley  —  to  run  as  the  heart  runs,  how  short 
a  time  it  takes!  Sometimes  twice,  never  more  than 
that,  the  lad  may  cry :  — 

"Pep — pers!   Oh  —  oo  —  ee!   Tammyshantee!  " 

Then,  with  clasping  arms  and  paws,  with  little 
laughs  of  delight  and  yaps  of  joy,  boy  and  dog  are  one. 

Now  it  befell  that  one  day,  when  business  was  dull, 
the  two  went  out  for  pleasure,  and  took  a  walk  of 
considerable  length.  A  brown  brick  house  came  in 
their  way,  a  house  with  an  ell,  and  a  yard;  a  gloomy 
house,  whose  shades  were  drawn.  It  had  old-fash 
ioned  wooden  shutters,  of  a  dingy  white,  and  in  the 
ell  the  lad  noticed  that  the  shutters  were  closed. 

A  man  stood  in  the  vestibule  of  the  house.  He  was 
a  middle-aged  man,  dressed  as  a  gentleman  dresses. 
For  some  reason  he  did  not  strike  the  gamin  as  being 
a  gentleman.  The  man's  face  was  heavily  lined,  like 
a  piece  of  old  leather  that  has  been  folded  into  certain 
creases  so  long  that  it  cannot  smooth  out.  His  eyes 
were  cold,  like  Bessemer  steel,  and  might  have  been 
as  useful,  for  they  were  not  stupid  eyes;  but  some 
thing  in  their  expression  was  indescribably  repulsive. 
Jacket,  who  was  whistling,  glanced  and  stopped. 
The  street  boy  was  shrewd — as  the  tribes  of  the  street 
are  in  the  interpretation  of  character. 

218 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


"  That's  a  fine  dog  of  yours,"  observed  the  man. 

"You  bet, "  replied  Jacket,  proudly;  but  he  walked 
on,  without  stopping.  Tarn  o'  Shanter  followed  with 
a  passionate  docility. 

"  I  '11  give  you  fifty  cents  for  him, "  pursued  the  man 
in  the  vestibule.  He  came  down  the  steps  and  out 
upon  the  sidewalk  as  he  spoke.  "Here." 

He  held  out  a  long,  sinuous  hand,  in  which  a  piece 
of  silver  glittered.  The  boy  and  the  dog  stopped. 
The  Irish  terrier  set  his  teeth  and  growled.  Jacket 
threw  back  his  red  head. 

"Fifty  cents!  Me?  For  my  dog?  You  must  'a' 
come  from  'way  back."  The  child  laughed.  "You 
must  be  orful  green  for  a  fellar  of  yer  size,"  he 
added. 

"Fifty  cents  is  a  good  deal  of  money, "  returned  the 
man  with  the  Bessemer  eyes.  "I  don't  know  but 
I  '11  make  it  sixty;  seventy-five  if  you  want  to  drive  a 
bargain.  I  've  been  wanting  a  dog." 

The  boy  seemed,  on  the  instant,  to  grow  before  the 
man's  eyes — as  if  he  had  been  another  man — and  to 
tower  above  his  elder  and  by  all  the  standards  of  the 
world  his  superior.  A  terrible  torrent  of  profanity 
poured  from  the  gamm's  quivering  lips:  — 

"I  wouldn't  sell  that  there  dog  for  —  not  for 
seventy-five  dollars!"  Jacket  enunciated  the  words 
slowly,  striving  to  express  the  inconceivable  in  the  way 
of  monetary  values.  Once  or  twice  he  had  seen  a  ten- 

219 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


dollar  bill.  Once  in  his  life  he  had  handled  five 
dollars.  He  dwelt  upon  this  computation  of  human 
wealth  with  awe. 

Then  he  turned  upon  his  ragged  heel. 

"Peppers!  Pep  —  pers!  Wireless  extry!  Oh  — 
oo  —  ee  ?  Tammy shan tee !  " 

The  soprano  cry  whistled  down  the  alley.  It  was 
night,  and  a  dark  one;  a  winter  night,  some  five  weeks 
or  so  after  the  incident  of  the  brick  house.  It  was 
snowing,  and  very  cold.  The  boy's  feet  were  wet, 
and  he  shivered  as  he  hurried  home.  From  a  busi 
ness  point  of  view  it  had  not  been  a  bad  day,  and 
tucked  tight  under  his  ragged  elbow  the  newsboy  held 
his  supper  —  their  supper;  his  and  Tammyshanty's ; 
a  scrap  of  cooked  beef,  cast  out  from  a  poor  restau 
rant  for  a  poor  but  possible  price. 

"I'll  give  him  the  biggest  half,"  thought  the  child. 
"He's  the  littlest.  See?" 

There  had  been  no  answer  to  his  call,  and  Jacket 
lurched  into  a  run,  repeating  shrilly:  — 

' l  Oh  —  oo  —  ee !    Tammyshantee ! ' ' 

As  he  ran  he  listened  for  the  sure,  dear  bark.  The 
lad's  lips  moved,  muttering:  — 

"Must be  so  stormy Ican't  hear  him.  Oh — oo — ee! 
Tammyshantee?  Must  be  up  attic.  That's  wot's  'e 
matter.  Must 'a' got  shet  in  somewheres.  Oh — oo — 
ee!  Tammyshantee?  He'll  be  settin'  in  'e  winder 

220 


"TAMMYSHANTY" 


a-watchin'  an'  a-yappin'  like  to  split  hisself.    Oh— 
oo — ee!  " 

He  pushed  on,  sprinting  through  the  piling  drifts, 
jerked  the  fringe  of  snow  from  his  forelock  and  eye 
brows,  and  raked  the  tenement  from  roof  to  cellar 
in  one  sharpened  glance.  The  dog  was  not  upon  the 
doorsteps;  the  broken  window  was  empty  of  his  little 
watching,  anxious,  Irish  face.  Jacket  dashed  on,  and 
up  four  flights  of  broken  stairs,  burst  open  the  door 
of  his  attic,  and  fell  in  panting. 

A  wisp  of  snow  had  drifted  through  the  broken 
pane  upon  the  foot  of  the  cot  where  the  child  and  the 
dog  slept.  There  was  of  course  no  fire,  and  the  attic 
was  very  cold.  It  occurred  to  Jacket  that  it  was  cold 
enough  to  freeze  even  an  Irish  terrier,  and  he  gasped 
and  gazed.  But  the  bed  was  as  empty  as  the  window. 
The  dog  was  not  in  the  room. 

At  the  moment  when  I  pause  in  the  story,  as  one 
pauses  before  the  thing  from  which  one  shrinks,  my 
eyes  chance  upon  these  words  chosen  from  one  of  the 
people's  philosophies  of  our  epigram-loving  day:  — 

"  You  don't  know  all  of  grief  and  loneliness  unless 
you  are  a  boy,  and  have  lost  a  pet  dog." 

The  first  of  it  seemed,  at  the  time,  the  worst  of  it; 
though  afterwards  the  lad  came  to  know  that  it  was 
not.  He  spent  that  night  in  the  storm,  baffled  and 
beaten,  searching  alleys  and  yards,  and  tenements, 

221 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


calling  upon  neighbors,  friends  and  foes,  newsboys, 
messengers,  letter-carriers,  girls  in  flaunting  hats,  all 
the  population  that  exists  by  locomotion  of  the  throb 
bing  streets.  He  went  so  far  —  and  it  is  difficult  for 
the  sheltered  and  respectable  and  mature  to  estimate 
the  extent  of  this  tremendous  step — as  to  consult  the 
arch  enemy  of  mortal  man,  the  police  of  his  own  city. 
Towards  midnight  the  storm  stopped,  but  the  little 
master's  passionate  search  did  noi.  He  crawled  about 
town  until  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  then  stumbled  to  his 
attic,  and  dropped  down  exhausted  upon  the  bed 
where  the  wisp  of  snow  had  driven  to  a  drift.  There, 
curled  in  his  drenched  clothes,  he  sobbed  and  slept 
a  little,  and  dreamed  that  Tammyshanty  slept  and 
sobbed  beside  him.  In  his  dream  the  lad  moved  his 
cold  foot,  and  felt  about  for  the  dog  upon  the  bed. 

"Say,  Mister,  hev  you  seen  a  lost  dog  anywheres? 
A  licensed  dog  ?  A  yaller  dog,  Mister  ?  A  pure  mon 
grel  Irish  terrier  dog  ?  The  purtiest  t'ing  of  his  kind 
you  ever  seen.  Had  a  tammy  shanty  cap  acrosst  his 
eyes.  You  never  seen  such  harnsome  eyes.  He 
warn't  no  common  purp;  he  ain't  no  poorhouse  dog. 
He's  got  his  master's  name  —  that's  me,  Peter 
Roosevelt  Tammany  —  printed  on  his  collar,  sir.  But 
I  '11  'low  they  calls  me  Jacket  gener'lly.  An'  my 
residence,  Mister,  my  street  and  number  in  case  any 
thing  happened  to  him.  My  dog's  name  is  Tammy- 

222 


"  TAMMYSHANTY 


shanty.  He 's  a  licensed  dog.  1 1 'ought  I  'd  find  him 
long  before  now.  See?  Say,  Mister,  sure  ye  hain't 
seen  any  sech  a  dog?  Not  anywheres?  " 

This  question,  repeated  a  score  of  times  a  day,  as 
many  more  by  night,  quivered  plaintively  through 
the  city  for  a  week,  for  two,  for  three;  for  more  than 
the  boy  had  kept  the  heart  to  count. 

In  his  emergency  he  consulted  all  his  old  friends, 
and  made  some  new  ones.  On  the  wharf  endeared  to 
him  as  the  scene  of  love  at  first  sight  between  himself 
and  Tammyshanty,  he  sought,  and  as  it  befell,  he 
found  his  rescuers,  the  two  fishermen.  He  who  was 
called  Jim  said :  — 

"Sho!  Can't  cher  find  him?" 

But  he  who  was  called  Bill  said :  — 

"I  '11  have  a  shy  at  lookin'  for  that  yaller  dog,  my 
self." 

The  shore  policeman  strolled  up  and  committed 
himself  to  the  extent  of  saying,  "That  so?  "  and  took 
the  description  and  address  of  dog  and  master. 
Jacket  had  the  pertinacity  of  purpose  belonging  to 
love  and  anguish.  He  went  so  far  as  to  look  for  the 
drunken  cook.  But  the  schooner  had  vanished  into 
the  storm-swept,  frowning  lake. 

The  newsboys  rallied  around  the  bereaved  child 
with  the  alert  instincts  of  their  calling.  One  passed  the 
event  to  the  other.  A  subterranean  intelligence  ran 
through  the  gamin  world.  In  particular  the  afflicted 

223 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


boy  was  aware  of  the  sympathy  —  as  dumb  as  a 
dog's,  and  almost  as  helpless  —  of  two  lads,  officers  in 
the  Newsboys'  Association,  and  bearing,  in  that  impor 
tant  organization,  their  own  dignities  and  titles,  but 
known  to  an  indifferent  public  as  Freckles  and  Blinders. 

"Dis  t'ing  otter  be  giv  to  de  press,"  suggested 
Freckles. 

"I'll  speak  to  me  Paper  'bout  it,"  observed 
Blinders  with  journalistic  assurance.  Jacket  received 
this  stupendous  idea  slowly.  After  giving  it  some 
silent  consideration,  he  timidly  sought  his  own 
favorite  reporter  upon  his  own  staff  and  told  the  story 
of  Tarn  o'  Shanter.  The  reporter  glanced  up  from  his 
yellow  pad. 

"Why,  that's  a  pity!"  he  said  kindly,  and  went 
on  writing. 

"Say,  Mister,  hev  yer  seen  a  dog?  A  yaller  dog? 
A  licensed  dog?  Wid  his  street  'n'  number  on  his 
collar  —  'n'  his  name,  Tammyshanty,  sir?  Hair 
stood  up  all  'round  his  eyes.  Master's  name,  that 's 
me  —  Peter  Roosevelt  Tammany  —  printed  plain 
beside.  Hain't  seen  him  anywheres  ?  Hain't  ye  seen 
any  sort  of  a  yaller  dog?  Hain't  ye  — " 

The  plaintive  entreaty,  now  learned  by  heart,  and 
reiterated  by  rote,  fell  from  the  lips  of  Peter  Roose 
velt  Tammany  as  a  bag  of  ballast  drops  from  a 
balloon  in  full  flight,  and  sank  with  a  thud  into  a 

224 


"TAMMYSHANTY" 


guttural  oath.  The  boy,  blinded  by  grief,  had  failed 
to  notice  where  he  was  or  to  whom  he  spoke.  Now, 
the  brick  house  with  the  ell  and  the  drawn  shades 
revealed  itself  like  an  unwelcome  scene  shifted  sud 
denly  upon  a  stage  in  an  unpleasant  people's  play; 
and  in  the  vestibule  the  man  with  the  steel  in  his 
eyes  stood  looking  down^coldly. 

"Go  to  thunder,  you!"  screamed  the  gamin. 
"Offerin'  me  money  —  money!  —  for  me  dog.  Fifty 
cents  —  seventy -five  —  for  a  pure  mongrel  Irish 
terrier.  Fished  me  outen  'e  lake  'n'  saved  me  life, 
blank  yer !  Cuddled  in  me  neck  an'  -  -  an'  kissed  me. 
Why,  Mister,  I  'd  —  I  'd  give  ye  seventy-five  dollars 
for  my  dog.  I  'd  git  it  someways  er  nuther.  Prob- 
a'ly  I  'd  git  it  from  me  Pepper.  Would  n't  mind  ef 
I  had  ter  steal  it  an'  do  time  for  it.  Say!  Look  here! 
You!  Come  back,  Mister!  Look  'round  here!  You 
hain't  —  you  hain't  seen  him  anywheres,  hev  yer  ? 
Mister !  Mister !  Ef  you  did,  ef  yer  ever  should,  you  'd 
be  kind  to  him,  would  n't  yer?  Cos  he's  'e  littlest. 
See  ?  You  'd  let  me  know,  would  n't  yer  ?  He  was 
sech  an  orful  cunnin'  dog  —  knowed  so  much  —  an' 
he  wagged  his  tail  so  -  -  't  wa'  n't  a  very  big  one  - 
when  I  got  home  —  an'  -  -  an'  kissed  me,  Mister  - 

But  the  door  of  the  brick  house  was  shut. 

Shrilling  and  sobbing,  the  child  turned  down  the 
street  unsteadily;  he  was  seldom  so  demoralized;  for 
composure  and  fortitude  are  newsboy  traits.  As  he 

225 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


reeled  along,  punching  his  grimy  knuckles  into  his  eyes5 
he  ran  against  an  old  man,  tall  and  gray,  striding  in  3 
water-proof  coat.  Jacket,  sputtering  out  of  his  bath  of 
tears,  recognized  the  philanthropist  who  had  lavished 
the  incredible  sum  of  two  dollars  to  license  Tammy- 
shanty. 

"Oh,  sir!"  he  cried.   "Oh,  sir!" 

Wildly  he  related  the  circumstances  of  his  expe 
riences  at  the  brick  house. 

"Ah?"  said  the  old  man,  sharply.  "Show  me  the 
place." 

The  two  retraced  their  steps,  and  stood  before  the 
house.  Most  of  its  shades  were  closely  drawn.  In 
the  ell  the  blinds  were  closed.  It  was  a  gloomy  house, 
destitute,  it  seemed,  of  family  ties,  of  the  sense  of 
home,  of  the  consciousness  of  human  love.  While 
the  old  man  and  the  boy  stood  regarding  it,  a  strange 
sound  escaped  from  the  place;  it  accelerated,  then 
lapsed;  muffled,  or  perhaps  stilled. 

The  child  shivered  and  gasped :  — 

"Sounds  like  —  sounds  like  it  was  —  " 

"Come  away,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  quickly. 
He  grasped  the  boy's  hand  and  led  him,  hurrying 
down  the  street. 

The  reporter  looked  up  from  his  yellow  pad. 
Jacket  stood  panting,  ragged  cap  in  hand.  His  teeth 
chattered  in  his  broad  mouth. 

226 


"TAMMYSHANTY  ' 


" Freckles  'n'  Blinders  says"  -he  began.  "De 
fellers  says  he  cuts  'em  up.  Critters  —  an'  -  -  an' 
dogs  —  livin'  ones  —  they  heern  'em." 

He  babbled  forth  some  one  of  the  tragic  tales 
which  are  so  unwelcome  to  the  sensibilities  that  it 
is  more  comfortable  to  doubt  than  to  investigate 
their  dark  significance.  The  reporter  whirled  on  the 
revolving  chair  of  an  absent  editor  —  the  religious 
one. 

"Must  be  one  of  these  private  experimenters,"  he 
said  below  his  breath.  The  chief  was  passing  by,  and 
stopped. 

"They  're  apt  to  do  pretty  rough  work,"  added  the 
subordinate.  "  Shall  we  take  it  up  ?  " 

The  chief  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
regarded  the  boy;  who  cringed  when  he  saw  the  great 
man  shake  his  head.  Jacket's  faith  in  his  "Pepper" 
was  illimitable.  That  its  strong  arms  encompassed  all 
human  powers,  and  some  divine  ones,  he  pathetically 
believed.  His  little  body  bent  together  like  a  shut  jack- 
knife  before  the  indifference  of  the  managing  editor. 

"If  there  were  any  sort  of  story  in  it  "  -  observed 
the  chief.  "It  does  n't  strike  me  there  is." 

The  pen  that  wrote  the  best  "story"  in  the  office 
sighed  for  its  opportunity.  But  the  young  man's 
heart  ached  for  the  lad. 

"Tell  me,"  he  urged  gently.  "All  there  is  to  tell. 
There  might  be  something  I  could  do." 

227 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


Jacket  did  not  answer.  The  reporter  went  out  after 
him;  but  the  child  and  the  night  had  blended  silently. 

It  was  a  wild  night,  and  Jacket  pushed  weakly 
against  the  resistance  of  the  brutal  lake  wind.  He 
ran  upon  a  little  squad  of  whispering  newsboys,  but 
veered  past  them,  volleying  incoherent,  piteous  words. 
His  head  hung  forward,  and  his  tongue  lolled  from  his 
mouth.  It  was  as  if  he  scented  the  brick  house  as  a 
hound  scents  prey.  He  flung  himself  upon  the  high 
steps.  Choking  between  sobs  and  curses,  he  demanded 
entrance  by  ringers  and  feet,  by  voice  and  fists,  by 
prayers  and  oaths. 

"  Gimme  my  dog,  - — you ! — Mister !  Dear  Mister ! 
Please  gimme  my  dog.  You  got  so  many  dogs  an' 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  but  him  —  I  '11  set  the  cops  on  you. 
I  '11  set  my  Pepper  on  you  if  you  don't  gimme  my  dog. 
Say,  Mister,  please,  Mister,  I  '11  pay  you  for  my  dog. 
I'll  gin  you  a  hundred  dollars  for  Tammyshanty. 
My  Pepper  '11  start  a  public  sooperscription  for  him. 
Don't  you  darst  tech  my  dog.  Tammyshantee  ? 
Tammyshantee  ?  A  men ! ' ' 

The  door  of  the  house  remained  shut,  and  locked, 
and  barred.  Jacket  shook  it  furiously,  and  fell  back. 
Like  a  cat  he  climbed  up  the  iron  railing  into  the  area ; 
crawled  beneath  the  blinded  windows  of  the  large  ell, 
lay  flat  upon  his  stomach,  and  beat  back  his  sobs  to 
listen.  Plucking  up  his  broken  voice  he  softly  called : 

"  Oh  —  oo  —  ee !  Tammyshantee  ?  " 
228 


"  TAMMYSHANTY 


Was  it  accident,  or  answer?  Did  his  brain  reel 
with  his  misery?  Or  had  the  lonely  lad  recognized  in 
that  inaccessible  inferno  the  cry  of  his  own  dog  ? 

He  dashed  over  the  railing  and  tottered  up  the  steps. 
There,  a  raging  little  figure,  hurling  blow  after  blow 
upon  the  unyielding  door,  his  friends  found  him.  It 
was  the  old  philanthropist  in  the  water-proof  coat  who 
took  the  child  to  his  aged  heart.  But  the  reporter  was 
there;  and  the  shore  policeman  (now  promoted  to  an 
inland  beat)  and  the  newsboys,  Freckles  and  Blinders, 
cursing  behind. 

"Tree  hunderd  more  of  us  is  comin'! "  screamed 
the  lads.  "We'll  smash  de  doors  an'  winders  in! 
We '//  get  Tammy  shanty.  You  betcher  life  we  will! " 

But  the  policeman  put  out  his  awful  hand  and 
motioned  back  the  thronging  boys  —  three  hundred 
of  them,  as  their  little  officers  had  said. 

"Nothing  can  get  out  that  there  yellow  dog  but 
just  a  search  warrant, "  said  the  officer  sadly  enough. 
"  And  the  judge  he  won't  give  it.  He  says  the  evidence 
is  lackin'." 

Chattering  like  monkeys,  the  newsboys  clamored 
and  pressed  up  against  the  office.  The  old  philan 
thropist  patted  the  child  upon  his  arm.  The  reporter 
stood  in  the  foreground;  as  if  he  cast  his  lot  in  with 
the  boys. 

For  a  moment  law  and  humanity  regarded  each 
other  silently.  Then  the  newsboys  broke  into  a  yell. 

229 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


It  was  taken  up  from  the  alley,  from  the  sidewalk, 
from  the  windows  of  the  neighboring  houses,  and 
swelled  from  the  street  beyond.  Freckles  pushed 
Blinders  forward. 

"Mr.  Cop,"  said  Blinders,  "we  repersent  every 
paper  in  dis  yer  city.  We  ain't  er  goin'  in  for  no  free 
fight.  We  're  law-abidin'  citizens,  Cop,  but  we  're  er 
goin'  to  hev  dat  dog.  You  betcher  life! " 

" I  wish  to  Moses  you  could,"  admitted  the  officer. 
But  he  stood  stolidly  between  the  house  and  the 
muttering  crowd. 

Apparently  baffled,  the  newsboys  consulted  in 
whispers,  massed  and  turned  away.  The  philan 
thropist  and  the  reporter  carried  Jacket  somewhere, 
and  tried  to  make  him  eat  or  drink,  to  warm  him  or 
to  comfort  him;  but  the  child,  refusing,  sat  with  a 
sly  eye  upon  the  door.  While  the  reporter  stirred  the 
sugar  in  the  coffee,  and  the  philanthropist  was  paying 
for  the  beefsteak,  the  boy  slid  out  of  the  restaurant 
like  an  eel  out  of  a  basket.  He  had  not  spoken  a  word. 
His  face  was  pinched.  He  had  ceased  to  sob.  With 
the  look  of  a  little  old  man  who  was  weary  of  life,  but 
with  the  wings  of  childhood  in  his  feet,  he  flew  to  the 
brick  house.  There,  crawling  flat  beneath  the  windows 
of  the  ell,  he  lay  and  watched  and  listened.  Once  he 
faintly  called :  — 

"  Oh  —  oo  —  ee !   Tammyshantee  ?  " 

Towards  morning,  when  it  grew  pretty  cold,  he 
230 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


climbed  the  iron  fence,  got  back  to  the  steps,  and 
coiled  himself  against  the  barred  door.  His  heart 
went  through  it  like  a  battering  ram.  It  was  as  if  he 
could  force  his  way  in  and  draw  the  dog  out. 

Forty-eight  hours  is  a  long  time  to  experience 
despair,  but  it  is  a  short  time  in  which  to  prepare  for 
retribution.  Of  this  the  private  experimenter  found 
himself  unexpectedly  and  poignantly  aware.  He  sat 
alone  among  his  victims,  and  eyed  them  with  a 
grudging  regret.  It  was  well  on  towards  midnight  of 
the  second  day  since  the  unpleasant  scene  which  the 
uninstructed  public  had  made  upon  his  premises. 
The  uninstructed  public,  as  fate  would  have  it,  had 
not  gone  away  appeased. 

The  brown  brick  house  was  in  a  state  of  siege. 
Neighbors  hooted  at  the  blinded  windows;  epithets 
and  missiles  assailed  the  man  with  the  steel  in  his 
eyes  if  he  raised  a  shade.  A  door  he  dared  not  open. 
He  sat  and  cursed.  He  listened  and  quaked. 

The  street  that  night  had  grown  impressively,  al 
most  unnaturally  still.  He  did  not  ask  himself  whether 
there  were  any  reason  for  this  circumstance.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  no  time  was  likely  to  be  better 
for  the  execution  of  the  purpose  that  he  had  formed, 
and  he  proceeded  to  hasten  his  preparations  furtively. 

The  man,  in  a  word,  had  been  brought  to  the  pass 
of  contemplating  flight.  Startled  by  the  popular  sus- 

231 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


picion  under  which  he  had  suddenly  fallen,  the  vivi- 
sector  gave  up  his  dreadful  game.  He  yielded  it  so 
far  as  the  protection  of  his  life  and  limb  concerned 
him;  he  did  not  propose  to  yield  his  "material."  He 
purposed,  as  is  now  well  known,  to  betake  himself 
and  the  doomed  creatures  in  his  power  to  some  other, 
some  safer  lair;  and  to  select  for  such  a  sally  the  small, 
dull  hours  after  midnight,  when  the  streets  would  be 
relatively  quiet  and  suitable  for  his  venture.  The  re 
markable  stillness  in  the  region  of  the  brick  house  mis 
led  him,  and  he  decided  to  make  the  move  at  midnight. 
He  stepped  stealthily  about  his  laboratory.  The 
place  was  dim,  but  it  was  not  still.  —  This  pen  refuses 
to  portray  the  sights  which  met  the  cold  eyes  so  familiar 
with  them  that  the  man's  nerves  did  not  complain. 
Such  of  his  subjects  as  could  walk  he  urged  to  their 
feet,  and  leashed  them. 

It  was  perhaps  half  an  hour  after  midnight  when 
the  locked  iron  gate  of  the  area  fence  swung  open 
cautiously,  and  a  man  peered  out.  The  street  was 
quite  deserted.  Not  so  much  as  a  yawning  officer  was 
to  be  seen.  The  vivisector  tiptoed  out,  and  down  the 
sidewalk.  Behind  him  followed  a  strange  and  pitiable 
group.  Dogs  on  leashes,  as  many  as  the  hand  could 
hold;  dogs  fastened  abreast  and  tandem  to  a  rope 
dragged  at  the  heels  of  their  tormentor,  followed  him 
with  the  beautiful  docility  which  only  the  dog,  of  all 

232 


"  TAMM YSHANTY  " 


created  beings,  offers  to  the  master  man.  It  was  not 
an  uncommon  thing  for  them  to  kiss  his  hand  while 
they  lay  bound  beneath  his  knife.  At  first  this  used 
to  make  him  uncomfortable;  but  he  had  become 
quite  accustomed  to  it.1 

Skulking,  with  darting  eyes,  he  dragged  the  dogs 
along.  He  congratulated  himself  that  he  was  not 
disturbed.  He  was  surprised  at  the  freedom  of  his 
movements.  He  anticipated  that  his  troubles  were 
over.  The  fugitive  physiologist  had  proceeded  per 
haps  sixty  feet  when  there  burst  upon  him  a  sound 
before  which  that  which  he  called  his  heart  stood  still. 
No  man  city  born  or  bred  ever  mistakes  that  sound. 
It  was  the  roar  of  an  oncoming  mob.  It  seemed  to 
him  for  the  moment  as  if  the  whole  town  had  become 
a  throat. 

The  tramp  of  feet  advanced  upon  him  with  an 
ominous  steadiness.  Out  of  the  dimly  lighted  streets 
the  crowd  took  rapid  form  —  neighbors  and  strangers, 
women  and  men.  Sobbing  and  swearing  had  be 
come  audible  and  articulate.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  the  man  heard  himself  hissed.  Officers  in  front 
threatened  and  beat  back,  but  could  not  stay  the 
onset  of  the  people.  Beyond,  behind,  surging  and 
shrilling,  pushed  the  newsboys  —  almost  a  thousand 
strong. 

The  man  stood  perfectly  still.   He  cringed,  but  he 

1  This  narrative  in  its  main  incident  is  history. 
233 


«  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


did  not  cry  out.  He  expected  to  be  torn  to  pieces. 
He  felt  as  if  the  heart  of  humanity  leaped  upon  him. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  no  escape.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  his  subjects,  in  all  the  years  of  his  red 
life,  had  no  escape.  He  felt  the  air  split  with  yells 
and  curses.  Instinctively,  stupidly,  he  held  fast  to 
his  dogs. 

Gray-white,  silent,  with  his  shock  of  red  hair  stand 
ing  straight  up  from  his  head,  grimy  hands  clenched, 
teeth  set,  and  lips  drawn  back  from  them  like  those 
of  a  snarling  fox,  Jacket  had  got  himself  to  the  front 
of  the  throng.  The  newsboys,  Freckles  and  Blind 
ers,  pushed  zealously  to  him  and  tried  to  support  him 
on  either  side,  he  tottered  so;  but  he  did  not  notice 
them.  His  favorite  reporter  and  the  gray  philan 
thropist  in  the  waterproof  coat  said  something  to 
him,  but  he  did  not  hear  what  it  was.  His  old  friend, 
Bill  the  fisherman,  stood  under  the  electric  arc,  and 
pushed  his  sleeves  to  the  shoulders. 

"If  yer  want  anybody  to  punch  him  to  a  jelly, 
I  'm  your  man/'  he  said. 

The  officer  who  used  to  be  shore  policeman  turned 
his  back  and  winked  a  little,  but  did  not  see  nor  hear 
the  fisherman.  Jacket  noticed  none  of  these  things. 
To  human  sympathy  he  had  gone  deaf  and  blind. 
The  reporter,  trying  to  keep  close  to  him,  saw  that 
the  lad  had  dropped  upon  his  hands  and  knees  and 

234 


«  TAMMYSHANT Y  " 


was  crawling  on  all  fours  like  a  small  animal  with 
some  purpose  which  it  cannot  share  with  the  superior 
race. 

Suddenly  and  silently  he  pounced. 

The  dogs  were  of  various  breeds  and  all  sizes,  and 
huddled,  themselves  terrified  by  the  rescuing  people, 
clinging  for  protection  to  their  tormentor,  the  only 
master  whom  their  pitiable  fate  had  left  them.  But 
some  of  them  struggled,  and  one  made  weak  efforts 
to  escape  from  the  rope  to  which  he  was  attached. 
Plaintively  from  somewhere  in  the  turmoil  a  stealthy 
call  arose:  — 

"Oh  —  oo  —  ee!  Oh  —  oo — ee!  Tammyshantee ? 
,4men!" 

The  weak  dog  lifted  up  his  wounded  head,  and 
feebly  barked. 

Then,  as  we  say,  the  lad  pounced.  With  one  swift 
stroke  he  cut  the  terrier  free,  and  clasped  him;  but 
in  the  making  of  the  effort  fell  over  on  the  curbing 
with  Tammyshanty  in  his  nerveless  arms. 

The  act  was  enough  to  fire  the  fury  of  the  crowd. 
It  rolled  on  and  swept  under  the  street  light.  The 
lake  fisherman  who  was  called  Bill  made  the  first 
stroke,  and  liberated  a  beautiful  spaniel,  who  kissed 
his  brown,  big  hand.  Knife  after  knife  flashed  in  the 
electric  tremor  —  cry  upon  cry  applauded  until  every 
dog  in  the  captive  group  ran  free.  It  was  said  after 
wards  that  some  people  in  the  mob  who  had  dogless 

235 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


homes  adopted  these  poor  creatures,  and  took  them 
to  their  roused,  indignant  hearts. 

The  police,  who  had  mercifully  ignored  the  descent 
upon  the  animals,  rallied  to  the  protection  of  the  man. 
They  dragged  him  off  behind  their  billies  —  where, 
or  to  what  future,  no  one  at  that  time  knew  or  cared. 
It  has  since  been  told  of  him  that  this  practical  phys 
iologist  fled  the  city  where  his  scientific  amusements 
had  been  so  rudely  interrupted  by  ignorant  laymen, 
and  that  he  escaped  from  the  metropolis  of  the  West 
to  the  metropolis  of  the  East;  wherein  it  is  not  the 
province  of  this  story  to  pursue  his  professional 
career. 

But  Jacket  and  Tammy  shanty  lay  clasped  and 
clasping  upon  the  sidewalk,  and  neither  spoke.  The 
reporter  lifted  them  in  his  strong,  young  arms;  and 
the  gray  philanthropist,  dashing  hot  drops  from  eyes 
too  old  to  weep  at  much  in  a  world  where  sympathy 
must  blunt  itself  to  suffering  for  its  own  life's  sake, 
said  imperiously:  — 

"Call  a  carriage  and  a  doctor,  and  bring  them  to 
my  house. " 

So  the  boy  and  the  dog  were  lifted  into  the  carriage 
silently  and  gently,  and  a  thousand  newsboys  followed 
the  cab  as  if  it  had  been  a  hearse.  Rumor  ran  riot  in 
the  streets  —  now  that  the  dog  was  dead,  and  the 
boy  lived;  now  that  the  dog  lived,  but  not  the  boy; 

236 


"  TAMMYSHANTY  " 


then  that  both  were  past  recall  to  a  life  in  which  they 
had  fared  so  hardly. 

The  morning  edition  of  Jacket's  paper  ran  like  a 
freshet  through  the  town.  The  pen  that  wrote  the 
best  "story"  in  the  office  set  forth  the  fact  —  which 
had  now  become  of  compelling  public  interest  - 
that  the  boy  and  the  dog,  though  weak,  and  sore 
bested,  would  live;  and  that  "The  Wireless"  had 
already  instituted  a  public  subscription  in  their  be 
half.  A  portrait  of  Tammyshanty,  taken  in  his  band 
ages,  and  sprawled  in  his  little  master's  feeble  arms, 
adorned  an  extra  of  that  energetic  daily.  The  News 
boys'  Association  cut  this  out  and  framed  it,  to  hang 
upon  their  club-room  walls. 

Jacket  and  Tammyshanty  lay  on  a  clean  bed  in  the 
old  philanthropist's  third-story  back  room,  and  re 
garded  each  other  seriously. 

"Hullo,"  said  the  boy. 

"Hullo  yourself,"  nodded  the  dog. 

"Hully  gee,"  said  the  boy. 

"Hully  gee,"  said  the  dog. 

"Warm  here,  ain't  it?  You  bet." 

"You  bet,"  agreed  the  dog. 

"Hard,  warn't  it?"  sobbed  the  boy. 

"Pretty  hard,"  blinked  the  dog. 

"All  over,  ain't  it?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"All  over,"  smiled  the  dog. 

"•Say  your  prayers,  amen,"  said  the  boy. 
237 


TAMMYSHANTY 


"Amen,"  replied  the  dog. 

"An'  we  ain't  no  relations,  nuther,"  suggested  the 
boy.  Beneath  the  bandages  on  his  wounded  head  a 
spark  in  the  eye  of  the  Irish  dog  fired  as  if  he 
said :  — 

"Doncher  be  too  sure  of  that!" 


UNEMPLOYED 

"SIR,  I  wish  a  position." 

He  who  spoke  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  yet  under 
sixty.  An  old  man  would  have  called  him  still  young. 
He  was  tall,  and  stooped  a  little,  not,  it  seemed,  with 
years,  but  perhaps  in  consequence  of  some  one  of  the 
occupations  which  have  a  tendency  to  round  the 
shoulders.  His  hair  was  grizzled  rather  than  gray; 
he  was  clean-shaven ;  his  lips  were  full  and  emotional, 
but  not  coarse ;  he  had  a  hopeless  blue  eye  and  a  well- 
formed  nose  —  hardly  large  enough  to  indicate  that 
force  of  character  which  expresses  itself  distinctly  in 
this  feature.  He  was  tall  and  thin;  his  flesh,  although 
shrunken,  was  soft;  a  physician  would  have  called 
it  flabby;  it  gave  the  impression  of  being  neither 
nourished  nor  exercised.  His  coat  was  short  at  the 
sleeves,  and  he  had  no  visible  linen.  All  his  clothing 
was  brushed  and  sponged,  but  shiny  and  shapeless. 
It  was  a  cold  day,  but  he  had  no  overcoat.  Lacking 
rubbers,  his  feet  were  wet.  He  held  his  hat,  a  battered 
derby,  in  his  hand. 

He  had  stood  in  the  rear  of  a  group  of  thirty  or  forty 
men,  all  in  search  of  work,  which  none  of  them  had 
found ;  and  he  came  up  last  to  the  desk  of  the  manager 

239 


UNEMPLOYED 


who  held  a  pen  suspended  like  a  sword  about  to  fall, 
before  he  said,  with  the  lifeless  voice  of  a  man  whose 
occupation  it  is  to  see  his  fellows  suffer  disappointment 
that  he  is  chartered,  but  not  empowered,  to  relieve: 

"Well?  Your  name?" 

"Racer,  John  Racer." 

"Residence?" 

"21  Gulf  Street,  city.   Fourth  bell  on  the  right." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  wish  a  position,"  repeated  John  Racer. 

The  manager's  pen  stabbed  the  cup  of  shot  that 
dried  it. 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"Anything  honest." 

"What  can  you  do?" 

"Anything  that  I  know  how.   I  am  a  professional 


man." 


The  manager  sighed  patiently.  His  lips  moved. 
Racer  thought  that  they  muttered  the  two  words, 
"Oh  Lord!" 

Aloud  and  articulately  others  followed :  — 

"If  you  could  dig,  or  build  a  stone  wall,  there 
might  be  some  hope  for  you.  My  branch  of  this  con 
cern  is  the  worst  in  the  building.  What  do  you  teach  ? ' ' 

John  Racer  replied,  "  My  calling  is  that  of  a  music- 
master." 

The  dejection  (apparently  chronic)  on  the  mana 
ger's  face  settled  into  acute  gloom. 

240 


UNEMPLOYED 


"I  am  no  strolling  musician,  you  understand," 
suggested  the  applicant.  "I  am  not  a  Bohemian.  I 
don't  play  in  bands  and  small  orchestras.  I  was  a 
responsible  man.  I  held  a  position  for  fifteen  years 
in  a  well-known  institution.  It  was  a  young  lady's 
academy.  It  was  a  position  of  trust.  I  can  give  you 
all  the  references  you  want. 

His  thin  hands  groped  in  a  ragged  wallet  for  letters 
that  were  yellow  with  time.  He  held  them  out  with 
a  deprecating  bow.  The  manager  glanced  at  them, 
took  the  addresses  that  they  offered,  and  pushed 
them  back. 

"All  these  are  pretty  old.  Haven't  you  anything 
newer?  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  while? 
Why  did  you  leave  ?  " 

"I  was  taken  sick,"  pleaded  Racer.  "I  had  a 
fever.  I  was  abed  two  months.  I  got  up  before  I  was 
strong  enough,  and  I  fell  downstairs  and  broke  my 
arm.  They  did  n't  set  it  right,  so  I  was  laid  up  a 
year.  You  can  see  for  yourself  —  by  that  time  my 
place  was  filled  —  I  supposed  it  would  be  easy  to  get 
another.  I  kept  a  few  of  my  pupils,  but  they  have 
all  gone.  I  did  not  realize  the  pressure  of  modern  life." 

He  held  out  his  fine  musical  hands,  palms  upward, 
as  if  they  were  an  illustration  of  an  argument.  A 
pale  spark  stirred  in  the  manager's  eyes. 

"The  pressure  of  modern  life  is  damnation,"  he 
said  unexpectedly. 

241 


UNEMPLOYED 


" Thank  you,"  replied  the  applicant,  without 
smiling. 

He  stood  patiently  and  silently  by  the  desk.  The 
manager  shut  his  books.  Something  in  the  expression 
and  attitude  of  the  elderly  applicant  made  him  uncom 
fortable.  It  was  plain  to  his  experienced  eye  that  the 
man  was  well  on  the  way  to  a  proud  and  respectable 
starvation. 

"I  will  look  up  your  references,"  he  said,  with  some 
gentleness,  "as  our  custom  is.  If  anything  turns  up,  I 
will  notify  you.  What  do  you  play  besides  the  piano  ? 
Anything?" 

"The  flute,  somewhat.  But  I  am  only  an  amateur 
there.  I  was  trained  —  I  was  thoroughly  trained  to 
teach  the  art  of  playing  upon  the  piano." 

"I  wish  you  had  been  thoroughly  trained  in  the 
art  of  running  a  street -car!  "  exclaimed  the  manager, 
recklessly.  "Or  if  you  could  build  a  cellar.  Or 
shingle  a  roof." 

"I  could  try,"  quavered  Racer  —  "I  mean,  to  run 
a  car.  Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  am  perfectly  will 
ing  to  do  anything.  A  gentleman  is,  you  know." 

"What  do  you  call  a  gentleman?"  demanded  the 
manager.  He  rose  to  put  an  end  to  the  conference. 
The  early  dark  of  a  cloudy  winter  day  was  settling  into 
the  close  room,  which  seemed  (the  fancy  had  occurred 
to  Racer)  to  gasp  with  the  emotion  of  its  occupants 
and  to  writhe  with  the  tragedy  that  packed  those  four 

242 


UNEMPLOYED 


walls  day  upon  day.  One  might  call  our  employment 
offices  the  laboratories  in  which  human  lives  are 
vivisected ;  those  of  the  employed,  or  of  the  employer, 
as  the  case  may  be. 

"Our  office  hours  are  over,"  added  the  manager. 
"I  can  do  nothing  more  for  you  to-day.  We  have 
two  thousand  three  hundred  and  fifty-six  men  on  our 
books.  You  see,  you  may  have  to  wait." 

"I  see,"  replied  John  Racer. 

He  turned  away  and  stumbled  to  the  door.  He  had 
eaten  nothing  since  morning,  and  when  the  air  from 
the  street  dashed  into  his  face  he  found  himself 
suddenly  faint.  With  the  instinct  of  a  man  to  avoid 
the  repetition  of  an  old  accident,  he  gripped  the  rail 
of  the  stairs  and  sat  down  hard.  A  door  opened 
behind  him  and  the  manager  of  the  agency  came  out. 
He  looked  disturbed. 

"  Don't  feel  well,  do  you  ?  "  he  asked,  not  unkindly. 
"I  will  get  you  some  water." 

He  brought  a  tumbler  and  put  it  to  the  lips  of  the 
collapsing  man.  "There  is  a  sandwich  left  over  from 
the  luncheon  my  wife  put  up  for  me."  The  young 
man  fumbled  in  his  leather  bag.  "'It 's  a  little  crushed, 
but  it  is  clean.  If  you  don't  mind,  sir  ?  " 

The  impulse  of  long  experience  had  added  that 
last  word,  and  the  music-master  instinctively  yielded 
to  it.  He  had  begun  to  fling  out  his  hands  in  acute 
protest.  He  expressed  himself  more  freely  with  his 

243 


UNEMPLOYED 


hands  than  most  American  men;  he  talked  with  his, 
supple  fingers  as  some  fine  dogs  do  with  their  paws. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said  weakly.  "I  did  not  expect 
any  special  kindness  —  here." 

The  manager  was  a  young  man  who  wore  middle- 
aged  glasses.  One  straight  look  escaped  through  them 
and  struck  the  elderly  applicant. 

"We  are  a  hard  lot,"  he  admitted.  "We  have  to 
be.  We  should  go  to  pieces  if  we  were  n't.  We  have 
got  our  living  to  earn.  See?" 

John  Racer  did  not  answer.  He  was  devouring  the 
sandwich.  He  ate  it  like  a  famished  animal.  He 
collected  the  crumbs  and  swallowed  those  ravenously. 
He  looked  about  for  a  napkin,  with  the  unconscious 
ness  of  a  man  who  has  always  been  accustomed  to 
use  one. 

When  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  eaten,  he  went 
slowly  down  the  long  flight  of  stairs  and  out  into  the 
street.  It  was  growing  cold,  and  the  slush  was 
freezing  under  his  wet  feet.  He  buttoned  his  old 
coat  over  his  chest  and  bowed  his  head  to  the  north 
west  wind.  Something  in  his  feeble  motions  and 
timid  gait  impressed  the  manager,  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  for  a  moment  and  watched  him.  "Racer? 
Racer?  What  a  name  for  that  old  cove!  Plodder, 
now  —  Plodder  —  John  Plodder.  John  Jogger.  John 
Leftbehind.  John  Anything!  But  Racer!  Lord !" 

At  21  Gulf  Street,  the  fourth  bell  on  the  right,  the 

244 


UNEMPLOYED 


evening  had  set  in  early.  The  tenement  —  one  called 
it  a  flat  by  courtesy — was  on  the  rear  of  the  build' 
ing,  badly  lighted,  ill  ventilated,  and  up  four  flights. 
There  was  no  gas,  but  the  kerosene -lamps  had  been 
lighted  an  hour  ago.  Both  the  occupants  of  the 
rooms  were  wage-earners,  and  their  eyesight  was 
their  capital. 

Mrs.  Racer  sat  at  a  hoarse  sewing-machine,  which 
had  fits  of  desperation,  like  a  dyspeptic  with  a  bron 
chial  complication.  She  could  not  afford  to  have  it 
repaired;  it  broke  a  good  many  needles,  and  when 
this  happened  it  cried  or  snarled.  Mrs.  Racer  was 
pretty  and  a  matinee  girl  when  she  fell  in  love  with 
her  music -teacher,  and  left  for  him  the  home  of  a 
prosperous  father,  who  disapproved  the  marriage  and 
died  a  bankrupt  without  changing  his  mind.  Her 
hands  were  distorted  with  hard  work,  but  her  profile 
was  refined  by  gentle  thought  and  feeling. 

Mrs.  Racer  made  shirt-waists  for  a  living.  She 
was  paid  seventy-two  cents  a  dozen  — six  cents  apiece. 
The  sitting-room  was  littered,  but  clean.  It  was 
warmed  by  a  small  cylinder  stove,  on  the  top  of  which 
a  teapot  boiled  eternally.  When  she  could  stop  long 
enough,  Mrs.  Racer  drank  a  cup  of  tea.  It  was  as 
strong  as  her  force  of  will,  and  as  bitter  as  her  lot. 
She  had  given  up  counting  how  many  cups  she  drank 
in  a  day. 

"I  must  be  kept  up,  somehow,"  she  said.   Her  skin 
245 


UNEMPLOYED 


was  yellow  with  the  tannin  on  which  she  fed.  Her 
machine  was  pushed  near  the  table  whereon  the  lamp 
was.  She  had  removed  the  shade  from  the  light, 
which  revealed  without  remorse  the  ravages  on  her 
face. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  was  an  invalid-chair. 
The  occupant  was  a  large  cripple  —  a  woman,  and 
still  young.  Her  crutches  hung  upon  the  top  of  the 
chair.  Her  hands,  not  strong,  were  deft  and  delicate. 
Like  her  mother,  she  worked  industriously.  She  had 
a  cheerful  expression.  For  six  weeks  she  had  earned 
a  dollar  and  a  half  a  week.  In  this  circumstance  she 
took  an  exquisite  pride. 

Her  business  was  daintier  than  her  mother's  and 
quieter.  She  worked  in  tissue-paper.  She  dressed 
dolls.  Incidentally  she  made  lamp-shades  and 
Christmas  bells,  doilies,  decorations,  but  by  pro 
fession  she  was  a  dressmaker  for  paper  dolls. 

She  would  have  been  attractive  or  possibly  hand 
some  if  she  had  been  well.  She  sat  in  a  billow  of 
bright  colors;  her  lap,  like  the  table  and  the  floor, 
blazed  with  brilliant  flimsiness.  She  was  snipping  a 
silver  sash  for  a  doll  with  a  bronze  skirt  and  a  Nile- 
green  shirt-waist.  It  was  to  be  noted  that  she  did 
not  trick  her  toys  discordantly.  She  had  a  sense  of 
color,  it  came  out  in  tissue-paper,  nor  did  she  scorn 
(no  artist  does)  the  available  material.  As  her  father 
had  loved  and  mastered  musical  sound,  the  spirit  of 

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the  daughter  yearned  for  beautiful  tints.  To  an 
extent  not  guessed  by  the  uninitiated,  crepe  paper 
offered  these.  In  them  she  rejoiced,  and  of  them  she 
wrought  cheerfully. 

Everything  about  the  young  woman  was  cheerful, 
except  her  name;  this  was  a  twice-told  corruption. 
Sarah,  her  mother,  had  called  the  child  Sadie;  but 
the  baby  elected  to  name  herself  Little  Sad,  and  Little 
Sad  she  had  remained  —  a  big,  happy  cripple, 
patient  from  the  beginning  of  her  denied  life.  She 
sat  smiling  in  a  wave  of  pearl  grays,  shading  to  dove 
and  steel,  and  foaming  into  pale  rose.  She  handled 
the  delicate  paper  as  freely  as  if  it  had  been  lace;  she 
never  tore  it. 

"There!"  cried  Mrs.  Racer.  The  old  sewing- 
machine  snarled  and  snapped.  Sad  laid  down  her 
paper  doll. 

"Another  needle,  mummy?" 

"Two  to-day,"  sighed  Mrs.  Racer.  "I  believe  I  '11 
stop  and  breathe  on  this  one.  Whom  are  you  dressing 
now,  Little  Sad?" 

"A  lady,"  replied  the  paper-dress  maker.  She  held 
up  the  painted  cardboard  body  of  a  middle-aged  doll 
with  gray  hair.  "Princess,  and  a  dinner  dress,"  said 
Sad;  "three  shades  of  gray  let  in  somewhere,  and 
rose  on  the  corsage.  She  will  be  quiet;  quiet  like  a 
moonbeam  from  top  to  toe." 

"Who  was  that  you  dressed  yesterday?  "  asked  the 
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mother,  indulgently.  While  she  talked  she  reset  her 
needle  and  replaced  the  sleeve  of  a  shirt-waist  with 
a  yellow  stripe.  "Who  was  the  one  with  the  red 
feather  on  the  picture-hat  ?  " 

"Oh,  she  was  an  actress,"  replied  Sad.  "She  sings 
in  ballet.  But  the  lady,  mummy  —  the  lady  stays  at 
home.  She  has  a  lovely  home!"  added  Sad,  joy 
ously.  "  She  entertains  educated  people.  In  fact,  I  'm 
not  perfectly  sure  she  is  n't  Cousin  Guy's  wife." 

"What  do  you  know  about  Cousin  Guy,  Sad?  We 
haven't  any  of  us  seen  him  this  dozen  years." 

"Oh,  I  hear  Father  talk,"  said  Sad.  She  was 
crimping  a  tiny  ruffle  of  rose  tissue  for  the  bodice  of 
the  lady  in  silver  gray.  The  ruffle  was  so  small  that 
only  exquisite  fingers  could  have  handled  it. 

"I  know,"  replied  the  mother,  patiently.  "He  has 
those  times.  He  thinks  of  everything  we  can't  have, 
and  of  everybody  who  has  forgotten  us.  Your  father 
is  a  dreamer,  Sad.  He  always  was." 

"That's  the  music  in  him,"  answered  Sad.  She 
spoke  in  a  low,  cooing  voice.  Her  father  used  to  say 
that  she  sounded  like  a  pigeon  on  a  roof. 

"It's  time  he  got  home,"  said  Mrs.  Racer,  anx 
iously.  "You  don't  hear  him,  do  you?  I  couldn't 
hear  the  last  trumpet,  working.  Sometimes  I  do 
wish  we  could  afford  one  of  those  new  machines. 
They  don't  make  half  the  racket." 

"Oh,  I  shall   hear  him,"  returned   Sad,  in  her 

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comfortable  way.  "I  always  hear  him  six  steps 
down  from  the  top  of  the  last  flight.  Don't  slander 
your  machine,  mummy.  It 's  all  you  've  got.  Sewing- 
machines  can't  have  cultivated  voices;  they're  not 
born  ladies." 

"Nor  born  poultry-yards,  either,  Sad.  When  this 
one  does  n't  crow  it  cackles." 

"Or  quacks,"  suggested  Sad,  laughing.  "When  it 
has  made  up  its  mind  to  chew  off  a  needle  it  barks. 
Mummy  dear,  he  is  coming." 

The  sewing-machine  was  now  screaming  down  the 
seam.  The  woman,  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle, 
could  hear  nothing.  The  cripple  laid  down  her  tissue- 
paper  daintily,  slipped  her  crutches  under  her  arms, 
and  got  to  the  door. 

John  Racer  entered  silently.  He  stooped  more  than 
usual,  and  his  lips  were  shut  together  hard.  His 
hopeless  eyes  included  everything  in  the  room  at  a 
glance.  This  ran  from  the  mother  to  the  daughter, 
and  back  again  with  an  expression  that  was  less  ten 
der  than  defiant.  He  regarded  the  two  wage-earners 
with  a  fathomless  envy.  It  was  as  if  a  transparent 
sliding-door  rolled  between  himself  and  them.  He 
experienced  the  bitter  exclusion  of  a  man  who  is  sup 
ported  by  the  women  of  his  household.  If  he  had 
shirked  or  dawdled,  he  would  not  have  been  capable  of 
feeling  this.  He  had  tried,  like  a  man,  to  do  a  man's 
work.  The  merciless  modern  world  had  none  to  offer 

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him.  No  woman  can  understand  the  workings  of  a 
man's  mind  and  heart  in  such  a  maladjustment  of 
life;  and  his  women  did  not. 

They  thought  they  did,  of  course.  They  were 
conscious  of  "keeping  up"  for  his  sake.  They  never 
nagged;  they  asked  few  questions;  they  were  con 
scientiously  kind.  Racer  dimly  suspected  that  it  was 
by  no  means  a  circumstance  to  count  upon  that  a  man 
should  be  cherished  by  two  feminine  creatures  who 
never  lost  their  tempers.  Sometimes  he  wished  they 
would.  If  they  snapped  at  him  occasionally,  or  even 
reproached,  he  had  a  curious  feeling  that  it  would 
reduce  his  sense  of  obligation.  In  fact,  his  was  the 
uncertain  temper;  his  wife  and  daughter  expected  a 
given  amount  of  irritability  from  him,  and  assumed 
towards  it  the  half -indulgent,  half -superior  patience 
that  women  at  their  best  offer  to  the  weaknesses  of 
men. 

On  the  evening  of  which  we  tell,  John  Racer  came 
home  in  beaten  reticence.  Every  day  that  winter  he 
had  set  forth  upon  his  solitary  share  in  the  mortal 
struggle  for  existence,  and  every  night  he  had  returned 
defeated.  At  first  his  wife  used  to  ask  him  kind, 
foolish  questions,  as,  "John,  what  luck  to-day?"  or, 
"Dear,  is  there  any  news?  "  She  had  long  ceased  to 
make  any  inquiries;  his  daughter  never  had.  When 
he  chose,  he  spoke,  and  to-night  he  did  not  choose. 
Sad,  leaning  on  her  crutches,  put  both  her  delicate 

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TIRED,    FATHER? 


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hands  upon  his  arm.  She  was  so  tall  that  her  smiling 
face  came  almost  upon  a  level  with  his  own. 

" Tired,  Father?  "  When  she  spoke,  she  patted  his 
arm.  This  was  all  she  said.  He  looked  at  her  and 
dropped  heavily  into  a  chair  before  the  stove. 

The  sewing-machine  screamed  on  to  the  end  of  the 
seam,  and  stopped  crossly.  It  seemed  to  Racer  that 
it  cawed  like  a  crow  and  jeered  at  him.  Even  the 
senseless  piece  of  machinery  was  his  superior,  for  it 
could  earn  money.  His  wife  stepped  out  of  a  thicket 
of  shirt-waists,  scrutinized  without  seeming  to  see 
him,  and  hurried  to  his  side.  There  she  began  to  brood 
over  him.  She  insisted  upon  the  first  rights  of  a  wife, 
and  seldom  relinquished  them,  even  to  her  daughter. 
Sad  might  divert  and  amuse  and  cheer  her  father,  but 
his  wife  should  comfort  him. 

"You  are  cold,"  she  said.  "It  was  such  a  mistake 
to  sell  that  overcoat.  You  are  chilled  through.  Why, 
John,  John!  Your  feet  are  wet.  They  are  sopping. 
You  must  change  them  right  away." 

She  knelt  and  pulled  off  his  old  drenched  shoes. 
She  dragged  away  his  stockings,  and  rubbed  his  feet 
with  her  small,  roughened  hands.  Although  he  pro 
tested  he  let  her  do  it;  he  knew  that  it  made  her  happy. 

She  brought  him  dry  stockings,  and  apologized 
because  they  had  holes  in  them.  "I  have  n't  had  time 
to  mend  them  yet.  I  '11  get  around  to  it  pretty  soon. 
Here  's  a  cup  of  tea,  John.  It  's  hot  and  strong.  It 

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may  just  save  you  a  cold.  I  will  get  supper  right  away. 
We  have  got  baked  potatoes.  I  saved  you  a  little 
piece  of  bacon.  Did  you  have  any  luncheon  to-day  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Racer,  eagerly;  "an  excellent 
luncheon."  He  quivered  with  delight  at  being  able 
to  say  so  without  lying.  For  two  months  he  had  gone 
without  luncheons,  for  which  he  could  not  pay,  and 
for  which  he  was  determined  that  Sarah  should  not. 
This  she  did  not  know;  he  meant  that  she  never 
should.  But  Sarah  was  a  wife  and  loved;  therefore 
she  suspected.  She  perceived  in  her  husband  the 
growing  morbidness  of  idleness  and  penury.  It  had 
even  occurred  to  her  that  he  was  depriving  himself 
with  deliberate  purpose  of  such  food  as  she  could 
offer  him  at  their  scanty  meals.  He  claimed  to  have 
lost  his  appetite;  she  had  begun  by  believing  him;  of 
late  she  did  not  know  what  to  believe.  But  she  had 
never  said  so.  She  spared  him  all  she  could. 

Sad  cleared  away  her  litter  of  colored  papers  from 
the  table,  and  knocked  about  softly  on  her  crutches 
to  help  her  mother  serve  their  supply  of  potatoes  and 
salt  —  and  tea.  It  was  a  cheap  green  tea.  Mrs. 
Racer  drank  it  like  a  drunkard.  She  gave  her  hus 
band  the  slice  of  bacon  which  she  had  jealously  kept 
for  him.  The  three  sat  at  their  crude  meal  with  the 
table  manners  of  a  class  as  foreign  as  their  grammar 
was  to  their  squalid  conditions.  Sad  talked  lightly  — 
she  always  did  —  making  merry  of  their  lot.  Some- 

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times  her  father  tired  of  the  unremitting  cheerfulness, 
for  lack  of  which  he  would  have  sunk  into  abject 
melancholy.  Once  he  had  said  to  her:  — 

"Sad!  This  has  ceased  to  be  ridiculous.  It  is 
dreadful." 

But  Sad  laughed. 

The  music-master  had  no  piano;  he  had  sold  his 
two  years  ago;  his  flute  alone  was  left  him;  it  lay  on 
the  mantel  (which  Sad  had  draped  in  soft  moss-green 
paper),  and  regarded  him  with  the  patience  of  the 
helpless  and  neglected.  After  supper,  which  he  had 
eaten  without  speaking,  Sad  did  a  bold  thing.  She 
thudded  over  on  her  crutches  and  brought  the  flute 
to  him. 

"Give  us  a  little  music,  Father,  won't  you?  Give 
us  ' Adelaide/" 

But  John  Racer  pushed  the  flute  away.  He  got  to 
his  feet  and  flung  his  arms  above  his  head. 

"Damn  music!"  he  said. 

Such  a  shocked  silence  answered  him  that  it 
startled  the  man.  He  stood  and  stared  at  his  wife  and 
daughter  for  a  moment;  at  Sarah's  yellow  cheeks  and 
Sad's  big  pale  face;  then  his  uplifted  arms  fell  slowly 
and  his  head  sank  upon  his  breast.  As  if  he  had 
cursed  his  Creator,  the  musician  stood  trembling  and 
repentant. 

It  may  have  been  penitence  for  this  sin  that  moved 
him  several  weeks  thereafter  to  do  the  thing  he  did 

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with  his  flute.  But  the  incident  needs  a  prefatory 
word. 

The  winter  was  a  cold  one  and  fuel  was  high.  The 
kitchen  stove  and  the  cylinder  in  the  working-room 
gaped  greedily  for  unprecedented  fodder.  The  rent 
was  due.  After  the  holidays  there  was  a  decline  in  the 
paper-doll  market,  and  the  cripple's  income  visibly 
decreased.  Sarah  Racer  was  disabled  by  one  of  the 
influenzas  obstinately  cherished  by  the  American 
populace  under  the  pseudonym  of  grippe.  Orders  for 
shirt-waists  fell  off,  and  long  silences  punctuated  the 
cross  chatter  of  the  sewing-machine. 

When  every  other  form  of  economy  is  exhausted, 
one  is  left.  The  human  body  can  refuse  the  food 
that  nourishes  it,  and  scorn  the  consequences.  How 
many  suicides  have  eluded  life  by  this  unsuspected 
road  no  medical  examiner  has  reported  to  us  or  ever 
will.  The  Racers  began  to  go  hungry,  and  then  cold. 
The  women  exchanged  grave  glances;  they  had 
ceased  to  discuss  their  plight  with  each  other;  they  had 
long  ago  ceased  to  discuss  it  with  the  music-master; 
it  had,  somehow,  abruptly  (as  such  troubles  do)  struck 
down  below  the  reach  of  words.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  Sad's  temperamental  cheerfulness  deserted 
her.  She  did  not  tell  funny  stories  to  her  father  when 
he  came  home  with  his  beaten  —  it  had  become  a 
hunted — look.  The  untimely  is  the  unseemly  opti 
mism,  like  a  laugh  at  a  grave.  Not  all  optimists  per- 

254 


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ceive  this,  but  Sad  did.  She  made  lamp-shades  in 
silence. 

For  the  first  time  in  their  history,  the  family  clung 
together  and  dragged  each  other  into  the  pit  that  is 
called  despair;  Sad  had  planted  her  crippled  feet  on 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  withstood  this  disaster  as 
long  as  she  could.  In  all  households  there  is  the  lifter, 
and  there  are  the  leaners;  so,  in  most  there  is  the  light- 
bearer,  and  there  are  gloom-bringers.  When  the  hu 
morous  and  the  luminous  qualities  in  Sad  gave  way, 
everything  tumbled  and  crumbled  with  her. 

With  this  rapid  descent  of  their  already  fallen  for 
tunes,  certain  curious  changes  might  have  been  no 
ticed  in  the  home  of  John  Racer.  He  himself  grew 
rougher  of  speech  and  manner;  sometimes  he  talked 
the  patois  of  the  street ;  his  grammar  halted  now  and 
then.  The  ladies  became  careless  of  their  dress;  the 
rooms  were  not  as  clean  as  they  used  to  be;  the  habits 
of  tenement  life  subtly  encroached  upon  the  household 
of  the  starving  gentleman.  It  was  as  if  privation,  hav 
ing  worked  its  will  upon  their  bodies,  had  turned  upon 
their  delicate  instincts.  Below  the  deeps  of  hunger 
and  cold  and  rags  there  is  a  deeper  depth,  and  into 
this  the  music-master's  family  had  begun  to  slide. 
The  inherited  and  acquired  refinement  of  their  na 
tures  was  in  danger;  but  the  subtlest  of  their  perils 
was  that  they  did  not  know  it. 

One  sharp  morning  the  musician  slyly  slid  his  flute 
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under  his  coat  when  he  set  forth  on  his  daily,  and  de 
nied  demand  for  the  right  to  exist.  With  shuffling 
steps,  with  hanging  head,  he  crawled  to  the  business 
section  of  the  town,  sought  the  densest  crowd  he  saw, 
and,  standing  with  his  back  against  a  big  plate-glass 
window,  suddenly  dragged  out  his  flute  and  put  it  to 
his  blue  lips.  The  day  was  very  cold,  and  his  fingers 
shook.  His  heart  beat  with  long,  thumping  strokes. 
He  had  eaten  little  breakfast.  The  flute  fell  from  his 
hands,  and  he  picked  it  up  from  the  snow,  and,  with 
a  gasp,  began  to  play  "Adelaide." 

After  a  moment,  the  acute  misery  of  his  position 
subsided  a  little,  and  he  was  able  to  see  that  people 
were  listening  to  him.  Many  stopped,  some  smiled, 
some  held  out  hands.  Suddenly  he  felt  money  in  his 
palm  —  a  dime,  another,  two,  a  quarter,  some 
nickels.  The  hot  color  raced  across  his  face.  From 
sheer  shame  he  lifted  the  flute  again  to  his  lips  and 
played  on  wildly;  thus  occupying  both  his  hands,  that 
they  need  not  betray  his  soul.  With  a  scorching  hu 
miliation  he  perceived  the  nature  of  the  thing  that  he 
had  done. 

"Adelaide!  Adelaide!"  sang  the  flute. 

"I  am  a  beggar!  I  am  a  beggar!"  said  the  gentle 
man. 

John  Racer,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  dreamer.  He 
knew  much  music,  but  little  law.  It  had  never  oc 
curred  to  him  that  he  could  be  breaking  any  by  his 

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humiliating  act.  When  a  policeman's  hand  gripped 
him  by  the  wasted  shoulder  he  looked  up  like  a  child. 

" Where  is  your  license?"  thundered  the  officer. 

"Why,"  said  the  music-master,  trembling  with  ter 
ror,  "I  did  not  know  that  I  had  to  obtain  any." 

"Oh,  come  off!"  cried  the  guardian  of  public 
morals;  "that 's  too  thin." 

His  big  hand  slipped  from  the  old  man's  shoulder 
to  his  wrist. 

"Why,  Professor  Racer!"  cried  a  voice  from  the 
crowd.  Some  one  stepped  up  and  whispered  a  few 
words  to  the  officer,  who  reluctantly  released  his  hold 
on  the  musician. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "if  you'll  be  answerable  for 
him.  But  he 's  old  enough  to  know  better.  Don't  let 
it  happen  again." 

Pale  and  panting,  the  bewildered  music-teacher  felt 
a  kindly  hand  drawn  through  his  arm,  and  found  him 
self  led  quickly  and  quietly  out  of  the  now  fast -thick 
ening  crowd.  His  rescuer  was  a  middle-aged  person, 
with  the  head  and  features  of  an  educated  man  and 
the  dress  of  a  prosperous  clerk  or  upper  employee. 

"  What !  Don't  remember  me  ?  I  taught  history  at 
the  academy.  We  went  to  faculty  meeting  together  for 
two  years." 

The  speaker  did  not  offer  his  name,  and  it  had  gone 
clean  out  of  Racer's  memory;  but  he  remembered  the 
voice ;  by  means  of  this  he  identified  the  face,  and  his 

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heart  yearned  towards  his  old  colleague  as  one  yearns 
to  a  neighbor,  never  sought  at  home,  whom  one  meets 
at  a  distance  from  it  upon  a  journey. 

Under  a  few  warm-hearted  questions,  the  shield  of 
Racer's  reserve  lowered,  and  he  yielded  the  personal 
history  of  five  bleak  years. 

"  Oh,  I  know!  "cried  the  other.  "Ztow'/Iknow?  I 
have  been  through  it  myself.  Every  man's  hand  is  at 
the  other  man's  throat  now.  You  earn  a  living  at  the 
bayonet's  point.  Get  pushed  a  foot  out  of  the  ranks, 
and  they  rush  right  over  you  like  Waterloo.  7  gave  up 
trying  to  live  the  intellectual  life  two  years  ago.  Some 
how,  I  got  left  and  I  couldn't  catch  up.  There  are  too 
many  of  us,  Racer,  and  New  England  is  the  very 
devil.  Any  bricklayer  has  a  better  chance.  —  What  ? 
Yes;  took  the  first  thing  I  could  get  —  the  first  honest 
thing,  I  mean.  I'm  not  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar, 
Professor  Racer,  any  more.  I  am  a  florist's  assistant. 
I  decorate  rich  people's  houses.  My  children  have 
enough  to  eat,  and  my  wife  is  warmly  dressed." 

The  two  derelicts  of  professional  life  looked  at  each 
other  with  the  deep  instincts  of  class  allegiance. 

"The  trouble  with  you  is,"  suggested  the  teacher  of 
history,  "you  have  struck  too  high.  Been  bothering 
the  teachers'  agencies,  haven't  you?" 

The  music-master  nodded  bitterly. 

"Come  down!"  said  the  teacher.  "Come  down! 
Try  the  employment  offices  —  something  manual.  I 

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will  give  you  some  addresses.  There 's  one  I  got  my 
situation  from.  You  are  n't  very  young,  that 's  a  fact," 
he  added,  ruefully.  "Can  you  lift?" 

"I  can  try,"  said  John  Racer. 

"We  are  short  a  hand  to-day,"  suggested  the  flor 
ist's  decorator,  "and  I  have  got  a  reception  on  at 
the  West  End.  Jump  into  my  team  and  I  will 
take  you  over.  It  will  be  worth  seventy-five  cents. 
You  have  n't  got  an  overcoat.  Whew!  That's  too 
bad." 

"I  am  quite  warm,"  protested  the  music-master, 
joyfully.  He  hugged  his  shivering  shoulders  as  they 
rode. 

Now,  when  he  went  with  his  friend  into  the  rich 
man's  house  he  saw  upon  the  door-plate  the  name  of 
his  wife's  relative,  he  who  was  known  in  the  family 
as  Cousin  Guy  —  Guy  Northrup.  Racer  was  so 
disturbed  by  this  that  he  would  have  turned  and 
fled,  but  the  sturdier  will  of  his  old  colleague  pushed 
him  on. 

The  master  of  the  house  was  not  within  it,  but  the 
mistress  was.  She  came  in  personally  to  superintend 
the  decorations  of  her  drawing-room,  and  John  Racer 
looked  at  her  furtively  while  he  carried  potted  plants 
and  tubs  of  palms.  The  lady  was  dressed  in  shades  of 
gray,  like  that  paper  doll  of  Sad's.  She  was  "quiet  as 
moonlight,"  as  Sad  had  said,  from  head  to  foot.  She 
had  a  warm  smile,  and  her  voice  was  like  the  prelude 

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to  "  Adelaide."  A  fine  piano  stood  open  at  the  end  of 
the  long  drawing-room.  A  wild  impulse  to  reveal  him 
self  seized  upon  the  old  musician.  He  could  hardly 
keep  his  hands  from  the  keys.  The  ease  of  the  beau 
tiful  house  crept  upon  his  nerves;  its  familiar  luxury 
stung  the  tears  to  his  hollow  eyes  —  he  was  physically 
so  weak.  In  such  homes  he  had  taught  half  his  life; 
in  such  he  had  been  entertained  —  the  artist  honored 
with  his  art. 

He  asked  to  be  allowed  to  decorate  the  piano,  and 
he  laid  a  low  basket  of  violets  upon  it  reverently.  The 
familiar  Beethoven  hung  above  the  piano  —  Mozart 
and  the  others  beyond ;  there  was  a  bust  of  Chopin  in 
the  corner.  The  old  musician  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
masters. 

"  Madam,"  he  observed,  holding  out  a  spray  of  ivy, 
"shall  I  crown  Chopin?" 

"Be  a  little  careful,"  said  the  decorator,  in  the  tone 
with  which  he  used  to  reprimand  his  history  class. 
"You  will  give  yourself  away." 

Racer  did  not  speak  again.  At  noon  he  hurried 
home  like  a  boy  with  his  seventy-five  cents.  But 
the  money  that  the  flute  had  brought  him  had 
dropped  from  a  hole  in  his  vest  pocket  between  the 
lining  and  the  cloth.  He  let  it  stay  there.  He  felt 
ashamed  to  touch  it;  he  did  not  tell  his  wife  that  he 
had  dishonored  "Adelaide"  by  begging  in  the  street. 


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"Sir,"  said  John  Racer,  "I  want  a  situation." 

At  the  desk  of  an  employment  office  of  the  lower 
grades  the  music-master  stood  patiently.  He  was 
pushed  from  behind  by  two  farm-hands;  a  groom 
elbowed  him;  a  motorman  and  a  coachman  had  forged 
ahead  of  him.  In  that  mass  of  brawn  and  bluster  he 
looked  feeble,  inadequate,  and  older  than  he  was. 
His  voice  had  a  strange,  thin  note,  like  that  of  a  being 
speaking  through  an  electric  wire  from  a  star. 

"What  can  you  do?"  demanded  the  man  at  the 
desk.  He  made,  to  do  him  justice,  a  good-humored 
effort  to  subdue  the  contempt  that  he  felt.  "Can  you 
dig?  Plough?  Mow?" 

"I  never  have,"  replied  Racer,  humbly;  "but  I 
could  learn,  I  think." 

"Can  you  milk  a  dozen  cows  night  and  morning?" 

The  music-master  was  silent. 

"Can  you  drive  a  span?" 

"Oh,  yes.   I  have  often  done  that." 

' '  Whose  were  they  ?  Your  own  ? ' ' 

"No,"  replied  John  Racer,  with  his  childlike  man 
ner;  "I  owned  but  one  horse." 

"Have  you  a  coachman's  reference?" 

The  musician  did  not  reply. 

"Or  a  butler's?  You  might  do  as  a  butler  now. 
You  have  a  pretty  respectable  look." 

"  I  have  no  reference  —  as  a  butler  —  no." 

"  Could  you  drive  a  furniture-van  ?  Have  to  handle 
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heavy  furniture.  We  have  an  order  for  an  express 
man's  helper.  Can  you  lift  trunks  ?  I  see  there 's  one 
or  two  ice  companies  want  hands.  That 's  up  at  3  A.  M. 
and  coolin'  off  pretty  quick  in  ice-houses  hot  weather. 
Could  you  carry  fifty  pounds  to  the  pick,  think  ?  Hey ! 
What?  Look  here!  Boys,  what  ails  the  old  fellar? 
Here.  Let  me  come.  Great  Scott!  The  poor  devil! 
—  Starved,  by  Moses!" 

The  coachman  and  the  farm-hands  stepped  up;  the 
motorman  shook  his  head  and  said,  "Gee!" 

A  teamster  lifted  the  musician. 

"Look  at  them  fingers!"  he  whispered  to  a  stone 
mason;  "I  could  snap  'em  like  macaroni!" 

When  John  Racer  tried  to  get  himself  up  from  the 
floor  by  his  despised  and  rejected  artistic  hands,  a 
good-natured  furnaceman  was  spilling  water  over  him 
out  of  a  tin  cup. 

"Here,"  said  the  furnaceman,  "lemme  boost  yer!" 

John  Racer  thanked  the  furnaceman  with  elaborate 
courtesy,  but  said  that  he  was  quite  able  to  walk  alone. 
This  he  did,  staggering  pathetically  away.  He  never 
entered  an  employment  office  again. 

"It  must  be  something  in  the  air,"  he  said  to  his 
wife. 

A  philosopher  was  the  poet  who  sang,  — 

"These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend." 
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The  florists'  decorator  had  held  out  a  hurried  hand 
to  the  music-master,  and  gone  his  ways  with  a  pleas 
ant  sense  of  having  done  an  easy  kindness,  and  with 
a  comfortable  purpose  to  follow  it  up  by  others  when 
he  saw  the  chance.  The  cost  of  his  inconsequent  good 
humor  was  definite  and  heavy  to  his  old  colleague; 
but  this  the  teacher  of  history  never  knew,  nor  would 
he  understand  if  he  were  told  the  subtle  relation  of 
that  morning's  tragedy  to  John  Racer's  life.  The 
links  were  too  fine  for  him. 

It  is  never  easy  to  distinguish  the  precise  origin  of  a 
great  temptation.  One  may  recall  the  point  back  of 
which  one  can  be  sure  that  it  did  not  exist;  but  the 
moment  when  it  began  to  be  is  as  hard  to  define  as  the 
moment  when  a  fog  forms  upon  a  clear  coast.  Of  no 
human  besetment  is  this  so  true  as  of  the  temptation 
to  cease  from  the  trouble  of  living.  Racer  could  not 
have  said  whether  he  had  or  had  not  dallied  with  this 
ghastly  siren  before  the  day  when  he  crowned  the  bust 
of  Chopin  with  ivy  in  the  home  of  the  relative  of 
Sarah,  his  wife.  But  he  could  not  have  denied  that 
since  that  hour  his  brooding,  melancholy  soul  had 
been  obsessed  by  invisible  forces,  most  of  them  sinis 
ter,  all  of  them  strong.  Although  an  imaginative  man. 
he  could  not  have  conceived  of  their  power  until  he 
had  come  beneath  it.  When  he  had  yielded  by  the 
width  of  a  tolerant  thought,  he  seemed  suddenly  to 

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have  yielded  half  his  fighting  quality.  This  thought, 
nebulous  at  first,  then  clear,  and  soon  distinct,  formed 
about  the  gray-clad  figure  of  the  lady  who  had  lifted 
beautiful  startled  eyes  to  her  decorator's  assistant 
when  he  said,  "Shall  I  crown  the  Chopin?"  They 
were  kind.  Oh,  yes,  her  eyes  were  kind.  They  had  the 
woman  in  them;  they  were  capable  of  pity;  they  might 
weep  if  she  were  touched ;  they  would  recognize  gentle 
nature  when  they  met  it.  Sarah,  too,  was  a  lady.  She 
would  be  sorry  for  Sarah.  When  he  was  gone  —  if  he 
were  out  of  Sarah's  life  for  once  and  for  always  —  she 
would  compassionate  Sarah.  And  Sad  —  a  cripple ! 
That  would  appeal  to  the  gray  lady.  She  could  not 
stand  off  in  her  beautiful  gown  and  see  Sad  suffer.  In 
a  word,  Racer  had  brought  himself  to  the  point  of  be 
lieving  that  the  relative  of  his  wife  would  provide  for 
the  family  if  its  unfortunate  head  were  removed. 
Once  he  would  have  set  aside  this  delusion  healthily 
and  intelligently.  Ten  years  ago  it  could  not  have  got 
the  better  of  him.  He  had  been  so  long  exiled  from  his 
own  world ;  he  had  been  so  long  a  poor  man,  forgotten, 
neglected,  cold,  ragged,  starved,  that  he  had  lost  the 
natural  focus  of  his  class,  and  acquired  that  of  the 
poor  towards  the  rich.  He  had  undergone  the  color 
blindness  of  penury.  He  saw  yellow  as  a  murderer 
sees  red.  He  came  to  exaggerate  the  distant  claim  of 
kin  upon  those  luxurious  people.  He  dwelt  upon  it 
until  it  assumed  preposterous  proportions.  He  saw 

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his  wife  in  a  soft  gown,  all  shades  of  gray  like  the 
paper  dolls.  He  saw  Sad,  smiling  and  idle,  in  an  easy 
chair  beside  the  bust  of  Chopin.  He  had  come  to  the 
pass  of  assuming  that  his  family  would  be  adopted 
bodily  into  that  home  of  ease  and  gentle  feeling. 

Now  this  peril  of  the  soul  he  could  not  share  with 
his  wife.  Most  of  the  temptations  of  his  life  he  had. 
Years  ago,  when  he  had  come  to  depend  too  much  on 
his  madeira  at  dinner,  she  had  persuaded  it  off  the 
table.  Once,  when  he  was  a  little  epris  with  a  pretty 
pupil,  he  had  told  his  wife  about  it,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  They  talked  it  over  together,  and  Sarah's 
good  sense  and  good  nature  had  kept  him  from  mak 
ing  a  fool  of  himself.  But  this  —  no,  from  this  he 
must  shield  Sarah  as  he  had  shielded  her  from  a 
draught  or  a  too  bright  light  in  their  bridal  days.  He 
could  fling  himself  off  the  spinning  world  into  the 
mysteries  of  space  and  leave  her.  But  he  would  shel 
ter  her  from  the  agony  of  knowing  that  he  meant  to 
do  it.  As  he  toyed  with  this  idea  it  grew  like  some 
creature  of  mythology  that  assumes  unnatural  meta 
morphoses. 

At  first  it  had  been  a  little  thing  with  which  he 
played  —  like  a  kitten  or  some  domestic  pet  Now  it 
was  a  monster  and  played  with  him.  Whichever  way 
he  looked  he  saw  the  temptress  —  death. 

That  he  should  ultimately  yield  to  her  he  had  no 
longer  any  doubt.  But  the  method  and  the  time  of  his 

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surrender  still  remained  undecided  in  his  mind.  As 
long  as  this  was  so  he  was  still  comparatively  safe, 
although  he  did  not  know  it.  But  the  serious  aspect 
of  his  situation  was  that  he  did  not  tell.  Intelligent 
persons  talk  suicide  sometimes,  but  if  they  do,  they 
seldom  commit  it. 

When  a  man  locks  his  purpose  in  his  heart,  and 
barricades  the  door,  and  stations  patrols  of  watchful, 
cheerful  words  or  sombre  reticence  to  keep  off  human 
approach  and  human  suspicion  —  then  save  him  if 
you  can.  Whether  the  mind  of  a  suicide  is  always  an 
alienated  mind  is  not  a  question  for  this  chronicle  to 
decide  or  discuss.  As  for  John  Racer,  he  was  not  in 
sane.  His  melancholy  had  not  yet  broken  the  hinge 
of  his  intellect.  He  knew  perfectly  what  he  was 
about,  and  why.  It  was  not  at  all  clear  to  him  that  he 
had  not  the  right  to  take  the  life  imposed  upon  him 
by  a  fate  which  now  forbade  him  the  power  to  sustain 
it.  If  he  reasoned  fallaciously,  remember  that  he  was 
not  a  philosopher,  but  a  musician.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  put  his  emotions  to  the  front.  Beethoven, 
Mozart,  and  Chopin  had  not  taught  him  logic.  Nor 
had  he  been  what  is  called  a  religious  man;  he  had 
only  loved  his  wife.  What  he  purposed  to  do  he 
should  do  for  Sarah's  sake.  Love  was  his  syllogism, 
but  there  was  a  false  term  in  it,  and  his  conclusion 
betrayed  him. 

He  began  to  stroll  into  drug-stores  and  put  ques- 
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tions  about  poisons.  He  began  to  haunt  the  bridges 
spanning  the  river  that  curved  around  the  city. 
One  day  his  fingers  went  down  into  the  hole  in 
his  vest  pocket  and  fumbled  for  the  change  that  his 
flute  had  begged  for  him  when  it  sang  " Adelaide." 
He  thought  of  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  for  which 
Judas  had  betrayed  his  Lord.  He  took  the  money  out 
and  counted  it  slowly.  There  were  eighty-five  cents. 
He  took  this  to  a  pawn-shop  and  bought  a  second 
hand  pistol,  old  and  rusty.  This  he  carried  home 
and  hid  in  his  shaving-stand,  which  had  a  drawer  that 
locked.  It  was  almost  the  only  piece  of  furniture  that 
he  had  saved  from  his  comfortable  past.  He  laid  the 
pistol  beside  the  razor  and  a  bottle  of  laudanum  that 
had  been  there  for  some  weeks,  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  fled  the  house,  and  went  back  to  the  river. 

It  came  on  to  be  early  spring,  when,  if  ever,  the 
starving  are  fed.  Masses  of  men  with  bitter  eyes  and 
powerful  muscles  thronged  out  into  the  country  to 
wrench  a  living  from  their  mother  earth.  It  occurred 
to  John  Racer  to  do  the  same.  He  dug  holes  to  plant 
trees  upon  a  gentleman's  lawn  for  half  a  day.  He 
was  kindly  dismissed  at  noon  upon  the  ground  that 
they  needed  a  stronger  man,  and  he  did  not  try  again. 

All  this  while  (having  abandoned  the  employment 
offices)  he  ravaged  the  advertisements;  mechanically, 
dutifully,  not  because  he  had  hope,  even  what  a  great 
misanthrope  called  " desperate,"  as  distinct  from 

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" common  hoping  hope,"  but  because  of  a  crude, 
peremptory  thing  within  him  that  he  neither  under 
stood  nor  respected  —  the  instinct  to  live.  Now  that 
he  had  determined  to  die,  he  scorned  this  savage 
impulse,  while  yet  he  parried  with  it,  God  knew  why. 

From  a  flaring  red  and  yellow  Sunday  paper  he  cut 
out  a  couple  of  lines  which  set  forth  the  demand  of  a 
family  for  a  gentleman  to  go  to  the  seashore  and  tutor 
two  boys,  very  little  boys,  and  to  teach  them  the 
rudiments  of  music.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  say  why 
John  Racer  staked  his  life,  or  even  what  one  might 
call  his  soul,  upon  this  venture;  but  he  did.  Beyond 
it,  he  was  determined  not  to  make  another.  If  he  got 
the  place  he  would  live,  at  least  till  fall ;  perhaps  even 
he  would  take  the  chance  as  a  sign  (he  did  not  know 
of  what)  and  go  on  living.  If  he  failed  to  get  it,  his 
mind  was  made.  He  would  tolerate  the  injustice  of 
existence  no  more.  He  would  rebel  and  riot  against 
it.  Yes,  and  he  would  take  the  consequences,  be  they 
what  they  might.  Once  he  muttered,  "I  will  not  be 
supported  by  women  any  longer." 

He  was  so  fortunate  as  to  secure  a  reply  from  the 
advertiser  upon  whose  whim  he  had  flung  this  awful 
toss,  and  the  evening  before  the  day  when  he  should 
keep  his  appointment  he  locked  himself  into  his  little, 
hot  bedroom  and  wrote  for  a  while.  He  heard  the 
cackle  of  the  sewing-machine  in  the  working-room, 
and  in  the  pauses  his  wife's  voice  —  not  so  modulated 

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as  it  was  once.  Then  Sad  spoke,  not  merrily,  as  she 
used  to  do;  she  had  caught  phrases  that  she  heard 
from  their  neighbors,  the  women  in  the  tenements 
above  and  below  them.  By  a  curious  freak  of  his 
excited  mind  he  thought  of  some  of  the  unpleasant 
details  in  their  sordid  lot:  how  they  had  parted  with 
the  last  piece  of  Sarah's  wedding  silver,  and  ate  any 
how,  with  anything;  and  that  it  was  some  time  since 
their  napkins  gave  out,  darned  to  the  last  thread. 
Once  he  had  just  saved  himself  from  putting  the 
edge  of  the  table-cloth  to  his  lips  at  supper.  It  was 
oilcloth,  and  veined  to  imitate  marble. 

"It  is  for  their  sakes,"  he  said.  "We  are  sinking 
into  the  bottomless  pit.  We  have  become  part  of  the 
great  submerged.  It  is  for  their  sakes." 

He  wrote  two  letters,  read  and  reread  them,  but 
changed  nothing  in  them;  sealed,  addressed,  and  put 
them  in  his  shaving-stand,  which  he  did  not  lock. 
Thus  they  ran: 

"MR.  GUY  NORTHRUP: 

"MY  DEAR  COUSIN, —  My  poor  wife  will  tell  you 
the  history  which  has  driven  me  to  that  which  I  have 
decided  to  do.  Please  tell  Mrs.  Northrup  that  I  put 
the  ivy  on  the  Chopin  when  I  came  with  the  florist's 
decorator  that  day.  Do  me  the  credit,  if  you  can,  to 
remember  that  I  have  never  made  myself  known  to 
annoy  you,  or  to  appeal  to  your  sympathy.  I  believe 

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poor  relatives  sometimes  do.  Sir,  I  have  tried  in 
every  way  I  can  think  of  to  earn  a  living.  I  cannot  do 
it.  The  ladies  of  my  family  —  my  poor  wife,  my 
crippled  daughter  —  have  supported  me  as  long  as  I 
can  bear  it.  When  I  am  out  of  their  way,  for  the  love 
of  God  and  pity  on  a  desperate  man,  will  you  look  to 
it,  somehow,  that  they  do  not  starve  or  freeze  ?  We 
have  been  pretty  near  it.  If  there  is  any  knowledge 
in  the  place  to  which  I  am  going  (I  don't  know 
whether  there  is)  I  shall  thank  you,  sir. 
I  am,  yours  truly, 

JOHN  RACER." 

The  other  letter  was  no  longer,  and  was  blurred 
from  beginning  to  end  with  splashing  tears:  — 

"SARAH,  — We  've  been  happy  together  in  spite  of 
all.  We  have  loved  each  other  a  good  while  and  a 
good  deal.  What  I  mind  most  is  the  way  you  '11  look 
when  they  bring  me  home.  But  it  is  the  only  thing 
to  be  done.  I  have  tried  everything  else.  Your 
cousin  Guy  will  look  after  you  and  Sad  —  his  wife 
will,  if  he  does  n't.  I  hope  you  won't  take  it  very 
hard,  Sarah.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  it  as  I  do. 
Sometimes  I  am  afraid  you  won't. 

"Bury  my  flute  with  me,  and  if  there  were  any 
body  that  could  sing  'Adelaide'  I  should  like  that. 
But  I  don't  suppose  there  will  be.  How  long  was  it  I 

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called  you  Adelaide?  It  seemed  I  never  could  get 
used  to  Sarah.  You  were  such  a  delicate,  poetic 
creature  —  half  music,  half  fire.  All  our  lives  to 
gether  you  have  been  all  love.  I  wish  I  could  make 
you  believe  that  it  is  love  that  makes  me  do  this 
deed. 

"  Tell  Sad  —  " 

But  what  he  would  have  told  Sad  was  blotted  past 
deciphering. 

He  went  in  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  with 
his  wife  and  daughter.  They  were  not  working,  and 
the  family  sat  in  the  dark  to  save  kerosene.  They 
chatted  quietly,  and  Sarah  Racer  remembered  after 
wards  that  John  had  talked  more  than  usual,  and 
more  cheerfully. 

In  the  night  she  waked  once  or  twice,  and  thought 
that  he  was  not  asleep,  and  once  she  found  him 
holding  her  hand  as  he  lay  straight  and  still  at  her 
side. 

In  the  morning  he  ate  no  breakfast,  but  this 
was  not  unusual,  and  he  did  not  tell  them  where 
he  was  going,  but  that  often  happened.  He  did 
say:- 

"I  may  be  late  to-night.   Don't  worry  if  I  am." 

He  kissed  them  both  good-by,  and  then  he  came 
back  and  kissed  his  wife  a  second  time.  She  went  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs  and  watched  him  going  down  the 

271 


UNEMPLOYED 


upper  flight;  he  clung  to  the  banister  and  measured 
his  steps  carefully.  She  thought  him  paler  than  usual, 
or  feebler.  She  said  to  Sad :  — 

"Your  father  is  getting  to  be  an  old  man." 

It  was  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  when  John 
Racer  came  to  the  river.  Why  to  the  river,  he  could 
not  have  told,  because  he  had  no  intention,  remote 
or  near,  of  drowning.  Perhaps  he  wished  to  feel  that 
he  could  if  the  other  failed.  The  rusty  pistol  was  in 
his  breast-pocket,  and  he  felt  of  it  as  if  it  had  been  a 
love-letter  or  money,  or  even  a  Bible,  such  as  religious 
persons  carried.  It  occurred  to  him  once  that  he  had 
never  been  religious,  and  to  wonder  if  it  would  have 
made  any  difference  if  he  had  been  with  this  which 
he  purposed  to  do.  His  determination  was  quite 
fixed.  He  had  passed  all  the  doubtful  stages.  He 
had  gone  by  the  border-land.  He  had  come  to  the 
country  of  no  retreat.  His  mind  was  perfectly  clear 
and  calm.  He  had  risked  his  last  throw.  He  could 
not  even  teach  the  rudiments  of  music  to  very  little 
boys.  Whatever  dying  was,  he  was  convinced  that 
it  would  be  easier  than  living;  and  this  is  a  dangerous 
conviction  for  any  man  to  reach. 

The  bridge  was  not  crowded  —  it  was  an  hour 
too  early  for  that  —  and  he  had  chosen  a  place 
at  its  farther  end,  as  far  as  possible  (he  would 
have  said)  from  Sarah.  He  found  it  difficult  to 

272 


UNEMPLOYED 


forget  —  he  wished  he  could  —  that  Sarah  might  take 
this  hard. 

He  was  leaning  over  the  rail  of  the  bridge;  it 
appeared  that  he  was  watching  the  water,  but  in  fact 
he  was  accustoming  himself  to  the  feel  of  the  trigger 
on  the  pistol,  which  he  had  covered  from  observation 
by  his  coat.  While  he  was  standing  so,  at  halt  be 
tween  life  and  death,  and  craving  death  with  the 
passion  of  failure  and  age,  he  was  disturbed  by  the 
sobbing  of  a  child,  and  looking  up  he  saw  a  little 
crippled  girl.  He  thrust  the  pistol  into  his  breast 
pocket. 

" There's  plenty  of  time,"  he  thought.  "It  will 
stay  there." 

With  the  manner  and  tone  which  could  have  be 
longed  only  to  the  father  of  a  crippled  child,  he  put 
his  arm  about  the  little  thing  and  besought  her  to  tell 
him  the  nature  of  her  trouble.  It  seemed  she  had 
lost  one  crutch ;  it  had  fallen  into  the  river,  she  thought. 
She  stood  crying  and  pointed  down  with  a  dirty  little 
finger. 

"Why,  no,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "It  is  right  on 
the  rocks,  not  very  far  down.  I  can  get  it  for  you 
easily." 

This  he  did,  clambering  down  like  a  young,  strong 
man,  and  brought  back  the  crutch  to  the  child,  who 
gave  him  a  small,  twisted  smile  and  hobbled  away. 
He  stood  and  watched  her,  smiling  too. 

273 


UNEMPLOYED 


"I  must  tell  Sad  that,"  he  thought.  Then  he  re 
membered  that  he  should  never  tell  Sad  anything 
again. 

He  went  back  upon  the  bridge,  walking  slowly. 
Four  men  were  coming  from  the  city,  straggling  one 
after  the  other. 

"I  must  wait  till  they  have  gone,"  he  thought. 
Two  passed,  and  a  third;  the  fourth  was  well  behind. 
John  Racer  resumed  his  station  at  the  spot  which  he 
had  left  to  help  the  crippled  child.  His  hand  crept 
stealthily  to  his  breast  pocket;  he  pulled  his  hat  vio 
lently  over  his  eyes.  The  fourth  and  last  man  came 
up,  passed,  turned,  and  stopped.  A  hand  touched 
the  musician's  shoulder. 

"Hello,  John  Jogger!  "  cried  the  fourth  man. 

In  the  tenement  that  one  called  a  flat  by  courtesy 
it  was  very  hot.  Work  went  heavily,  and  the  sewing- 
machine,  which  seemed  to  mind  the  weather,  like 
other  people,  turned  shrewish,  snarled,  and  bit  off  a 
needle. 

"There!"  said  Mrs.  Racer;  "the  third  to-day. 
And  I  believe  I  have  n't  got  another  to  my  name." 

"Then  you  can  rest  and  enjoy  yourself,  mummy," 
suggested  Sad. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  can  rest  —  and  enjoy  —  my-self," 
repeated  Sarah  Racer,  bitterly. 

She  pushed  her  chair  away  from  the  machine  and 
274 


UNEMPLOYED 


began  to  fold  and  pile  up  the  shirt-waists  that  billowed 
about  her.  Sad  put  back  the  straggling  wet  hair 
from  her  own  damp  face  and  leaned  back  in  her 
cushioned  chair;  her  large  eyes  brooded  as  if  she  had 
been  the  mother  and  Sarah  Racer  had  been  the  child. 

"Don't  begin  yet,"  she  said  abruptly.   "It  really 
is  n't  time.   He  is  often  later  than  this,  you  know  - 
much  later,  mummy." 

"It  Js  the  look  he  had,"  replied  Mrs.  Racer.  "But 
it  is  early  to  worry,  I  '11  own  to  that.  What  are  you 
dressing  to-day,  Sad  ?  " 

Sad  hesitated,  and  held  up  her  paper  doll  in  silence. 
The  cripple  sat  in  a  mass  of  mournful  colors,  black 
and  white;  and  the  doll  in  her  hands  was  a  paper 
widow  in  a  long  black  veil.  Sad  tied  a  little  white 
tissue  bow  beneath  the  widow's  chin,  and  laid  her 
away  in  a  pasteboard  box. 

"I  hate  it!  I  hate  it!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "To 
morrow  I  '11  have  a  bride  and  six  bridesmaids." 

"Sad,"  said  Mrs.  Racer,  "there 's  no  use  pretending 
any  longer.  Your  father  ought  to  have  been  here 
half  an  hour  ago." 

She  got  up  and  drained  a  cup  of  bitter  tea,  cold,  and 
poisoned  by  the  tin  pot  in  which  it  had  stood  all  day. 
Then  she  began  to  pace  the  hot,  small  room,  pass 
ing  in  and  out  of  the  bedroom  as  she  flung  herself 
to  and  fro,  pulling  on  her  nerves  as  a  dog  pulls  on  a 
leash. 

275 


UNEMPLOYED 


"I  did  n't  like  his  looks  to-day,"  she  repeated. 

Now  Sad  had  liked  them  even  less,  but  she  had  not 
said  so.  She  sat  with  her  large  head  on  one  side, 
listening  acutely.  She  took  her  crutches  from  the  top 
of  the  chair  and  held  them  ready  for  she  knew  not 
what.  She  tried  to  say  something,  but  only  suc 
ceeded  in  making  that  cooing,  comforting  noise  which 
her  father  said  was  like  pigeons  on  a  roof.  The  two 
women  endured  the  inquisition  of  anxiety  which  men 
inflict  because  they  are  men,  and  never,  for  the  same 
reason,  understand. 

Then  Sad  heard  a  cry  —  low  at  first,  but  rising  till 
it  cleft  her  heart.  From  out  of  the  bedroom  Mrs. 
Racer  dashed ;  her  face,  shriveled  beneath  its  yellow 
skin,  was  of  a  piteous  color;  in  her  small,  rough  hands 
she  held  out  two  shaking  letters. 

All  disheveled  as  she  was,  in  her  cotton  wrapper, 
open  at  the  throat,  Sarah  Racer  would  have 
plunged  into  the  street.  But  the  cripple  held  her 
back. 

"Not  without  me,  mummy!  Not  without  me!" 
Sad,  who  had  not  been  down  the  stairs  since  she  had 
been  lifted  up  them  more  than  a  year  before,  put  her 
crutches  under  her  arms  and  thudded  to  the  top 
flight,  sat  herself  down  and  pushed  from  step  to  step, 
as  persons  on  crutches  can.  As  she  did  so  she  held 
her  mother's  skirt  and  clung  to  it,  for  she  was  afraid 
that  the  woman  would  fling  herself  headlong.  So 

276 


UNEMPLOYED 


the  little  procession  of  two  came  down  four  flights  of 
stairs  and  panted  into  the  street.  There  they  stood, 
bewildered,  knowing  no  more  than  the  pigeons  on 
the  roofs  above  them  what  to  do.  But  Sad  kept  her 
head,  and  held  her  mother  by  the  cotton  wrapper. 

"Keep  a  little  quiet,  mummy!  Don't  let  every 
body  know." 

They  stumbled  along  the  sidewalk,  staring  every 
where,  as  if  that  would  find  or  help  him,  afraid  to 
tell  their  dreadful  news,  afraid  not  to  tell  it,  and 
clinging  together  as  women  do  in  the  emergencies 
that  have  gone  beyond  their  wits. 

Then,  running  rapidly  towards  them  they  saw  a 
radiant  man.  He  was  an  aging  man,  but  his  years  had 
fallen  from  him  like  melted  snow.  He  was  gaunt  and 
bent  and  ragged;  but  he  held  his  head  like  a  boy. 
He  was  feeble  and  bald,  and  in  his  excitement  he  had 
lost  his  hat  and  ran  bareheaded ;  but  the  fire  of  youth 
flared  in  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  was  as  the  voice  of 
those  who  have  drunk  the  wine  of  joy.  Gesticulating 
with  his  voluble  fingers,  he  held  out  his  arms,  and  his 
wife  lurched  into  them.  The  cripple,  tottering,  sup 
ported  only  by  her  crutches,  laughed.  Proud,  ecstatic, 
with  the  triumph  of  one  who,  being  compelled  by  the 
laws  of  God  and  man  to  exist,  has  found  the  way  to  do 
so,  John  Racer  cried  aloud :  — 

"I've  got  a  jobl" 


THE  SACRED  FIRE 

THE  room  was  high  and  dimly  lighted,  its  ceiling 
traversed  with  oaken  beams.  In  the  shadow  that 
seemed  to  rise  from  below,  like  hot  air,  these  gave 
the  effect  of  arms  extended;  whether  in  benediction 
or  malediction,  who  but  the  occupant  should  say? 

The  walls,  such  portions  of  them  as  showed  be 
tween  the  tall  bookcases,  were  papered  in  dull  gold. 
The  bookcases  were  full  and  in  ceremonious  order; 
editions  de  luxe  were  many,  and  all  the  books  were 
expensively  bound;  few  were  at  all  worn,  and  a  bind 
ing  battered  by  love  was  not  to  be  seen. 

The  room,  in  fact,  was  a  library  in  which  nobody 
read  —  a  rich  man's  library,  selected  by  a  bookseller, 
or  some  literary  friend;  ordered  as  one  chooses  his 
horses.,  his  wines,  his  upholstery,  or  his  wife,  to  com 
plete  an  establishment. 

Jackson  GrenfelPs  wife  sat  by  the  reading-lamp  with 
the  yellow  porcelain  shade  (a  dash  of  butterflies  and 
golden -glow  blew  across  it),  and,  though  one  had  been 
a  stranger  in  the  room,  it  would  have  seemed  some 
how  the  unexpected  thing  that  Allyria  Grenfell  should 
have  an  open  book  —  not  a  novel  —  in  her  hand. 
Strictly  speaking,  for  the  last  year  it  could  not  have 

278 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


been  said  that  nobody  read  in  the  library.  Allyria 
had  read.  This  is  to  say,  she  had  been  trying  to,  or 
learning  to,  taught  by  her  friendship  for  a  reading 
man.  Enchained  as  he  was  by  her  charm,  it  must  be 
confessed  that  he  had  been  perplexed,  at  times  even 
chilled,  by  her  ignorance,  and  he  had  set  about  the 
pleasant  task  of  leading  her  through  the  gardens  of 
literature  with  that  mingled  sense  of  superiority  and 
delight  natural  to  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to  femi 
nine  admiration,  and  who  has  failed  to  experience  the 
power  of  a  woman  stronger  than  himself. 

In  a  word,  Allyria  read  because  Cecil  Murray  had 
asked  her  to,  and  Murray  had  asked  her  to  because  he 
could  not  help  it.  He  felt  the  waste  in  her  rich  nature 
as  an  affront ;  it  had  come  to  take  on  the  character  of 
a  personal  loss  to  him.  She  was  no  more  undevel 
oped  than  other  women  of  her  type.  Her  luxurious 
instincts  had  been  pampered  to  surfeit,  and  her  brain 
starved  to  famine;  her  soul  —  but  Murray  did  not  go 
so  far  as  that;  in  the  matter  of  souls  he  was  as  unin- 
structed  as  she,  perhaps,  although  he  did  not  know  it, 
more  so.  He  had  the  self-satisfaction  of  a  dilettante 
whose  literary  taste  may  supplant  his  conscience  with 
out  his  suspecting  it.  At  all  events,  he  had  led  and 
she  had  read,  and  both  had  learned;  lessons  not  in 
their  calculation,  and  amassing  upon  them  an  educa 
tion  yet  to  be  reckoned  with. 

She  had  called  it  friendship,  as  good  women  do; 
279 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


and  what  he  called  it  she  did  not  ask.  In  spite  of  the 
fatal  history  of  man  and  woman,  friendship  exists; 
an  emotion  noble  if  not  safe;  and  Allyria  had  sat  in 
the  old  perilous  seat  and  thought  herself  secure,  be 
cause  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  possibly 
be  otherwise. 

But  her  reading,  like  her  experience,  had  followed 
the  line  of  least  resistance.  Murray  had  begun,  when 
he  was  a  dreamy,  self-indulgent  lad  at  college,  to 
read  the  artistic,  tainted  novels,  making  his  own 
misguided  selection,  and  this  habit  he  had  never 
dropped.  It  was  like  that  of  any  other  inebriation; 
his  dram  had  long  since  ceased  to  please  him,  but  he 
drank  on.  He  had  lent  a  few  French  and  Russian 
classics  to  Mrs.  Grenfell,  but  she  did  not  care  for 
them.  He  had  read  the  dangerous  fiction;  but  she 
had  chosen  the  dangerous  poetry;  the  combination 
had  its  liabilities,  like  those  of  sulphur  and  fire. 

On  this  evening  of  which  we  tell,  Allyria  had  not 
been  reading  attentively;  her  mind  and  her  body 
were  equally  restless.  She  closed  her  book  suddenly — 
it  was  one  of  the  modern  decadents  —  and  pushed  it 
as  far  from  her  as  she  could  across  the  table,  replacing 
it  by  another  for  which  she  groped  with  brown, 
September  hands  upon  the  mantel.  A  low  fire  had 
been  started  in  the  grate,  but,  being  a  fire,  and  unfed, 
was  dying  slowly.  She  stood  for  a  moment  in  the 
faint  cannel  flicker,  urging  the  pages  through  her 

280 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


fingers.  When  she  had  found  the  poem  she  did  not 
read  it,  but  glanced  at  it,  wincing.  She  seemed  to 
cower  before  it,  and  with  a  gesture  more  of  fear  than 
of  impatience,  laid  the  book  open  face  down  below  the 
reading-lamp.  She  did  not  resume  her  seat,  but  stood 
with  her  eyes  upon  the  failing  fire. 

She  was  not  in  dinner  dress,  as  the  servants  had 
observed,  but  wore  a  street  gown  of  dark  cloth.  The 
early  autumn  night  was  warm,  and  she  had  pushed 
off  the  jacket.  Her  face  rose  from  her  cream  lace 
waist  as  if  both  had  been  parts  of  the  same  piece  of 
delicate  embroidery.  Her  skin  was  as  soft  as  that  of 
a  well  woman  can  be,  and  her  coloring  was  fair  and 
fine.  But  her  eyes  and  hair  were  tropical. 

She  had  dined  early  and  lightly,  and  it  was  still 
scarcely  seven  by  the  clock  upon  the  mantel.  It 
seemed  to  Mrs.  Grenfell  that  the  clock  watched  her 
and  followed  her  about  the  room,  as  the  eyes  of  a 
good  portrait  follow  the  observer.  She  grew  uncom 
fortable  before  the  clock,  and  presently  it  occurred 
to  her  that  it  was  pointing  at  her  with  its  fingers. 
This  idea  possessed  her  so  that  she  turned  her  back 
upon  the  clock  resentfully  and  left  the  room.  The 
house  was  quite  still,  and  the  upper  story  deserted. 
She  met  no  one,  and  she  wandered  from  doorway 
to  doorway  with  something  of  the  sense  of  freedom 
which  she  had  when  she  let  all  the  servants  off  upon 
a  half -holiday. 

281 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


"It  is  only  then,"  she  once  told  her  husband,  "that 
I  feel  as  if  we  owned  our  own  house." 

"Oh,  come  now!"  Jackson  Grenfell  had  said, 
staring,  "there  isn't  a  mortgage  on  it." 

She  was  quite  used  to  Jackson's  not  understanding; 
he  was  not  apt  to.  Allyria  would  have  loved  her  home 
if  she  had  been  happy  in  it;  she  was  naturally  a 
homing  woman.  Now  she  looked  about  the  house 
compassionately,  as  if  it  were  something  that  could 
feel  and  suffer,  and  if  it  were  deserted  would  know  it. 
With  more  of  purpose  than  of  accident  in  her  motions 
she  slid  from  room  to  room,  lingering  chiefly  in  three 
—  her  own,  a  reverie  in  pearl  and  rose,  too  delicate  to 
be  sumptuous,  but  too  tender  to  be  cold;  her  hus 
band's,  where  her  bridal  portrait  still  hung  above 
the  empty  bed,  flanked  by  riding-whips  and  antlers, 
champion  golf  cups,  and  photographs  of  racing 
yachts;  and  then  the  child's.  This  last  was  locked. 
She  had  always  kept  the  key  herself  since  the  baby 
died.  She  used  to  go  in  every  morning  and  sun  and 
air  the  empty  nursery,  but  for  a  long  time  she  had 
neglected  to  do  so;  perhaps  she  had  purposed  not  to 
do  so.  The  place  was  damp  and  cold.  She  shrank 
from  it  at  first,  as  if  she  had  opened  a  vault;  then 
resolutely  pushed  in.  She  had  carried  her  own  tiny 
mother-of-pearl  candlestick  with  its  long  pink  taper, 
and  the  colored  wax  guttered  upon  her  fingers  as  she 
bent  over  the  crib.  A  spark  touched  the  little  lace- 

282 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


draped  bed,  and  the  flimsy  stuff  blazed.  She  extin 
guished  the  flames  without  calling  for  help,  and 
burned  her  hand.  She  felt  something  like  a  sense  of 
pleasure  in  the  smart.  It  was  the  mooca  to  a  misery 
which  seemed  to  have  settled  in  the  marrow  of  her 
life.  She  buried  her  face  in  the  lace,  but  did  not  kiss  it. 
Her  dry  lips  straightened  before  it  and  refused.  She 
arranged  the  scorched  drapery  carefully  in  its  place, 
and  did  not  look  back  at  it  as  she  left  the  room,  but 
when  she  had  locked  the  door  she  put  the  key  in  her 
pocket.  It  was  a  small  key,  and  it  had  been  her 
pretty  fancy  to  have  it  made  of  silver. 

Cecil  Murray  was  in  the  library  when  she  came 
downstairs.  Mrs.  GrenfelPs  maid,  Janet,  had  ad 
mitted  him,  it  being  the  butler's  evening  off.  Janet 
stood  observantly  in  the  hall. 

"Do  you  want  me,  Madam?" 

"  If  I  do  I  will  let  you  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Grenfell, 
coldly. 

"Very  well,  Madam.  I  did  not  know  but  — " 
Something  in  the  girl's  expression  or  tone  annoyed 
her  mistress,  and  she  turned  with  unusual  sharpness ; 
for  her  manner  with  servants  was  finished,  and  there 
fore  considerate. 

"Why  should  you  know?  "she  demanded.  Shewent 
abruptly  into  the  library,  and  shut  the  door;  a  thing 
which  Janet  had  never  seen  her  do  before  when  Mr. 
Murray  was  there.  And  Mr.  Murray  was  often  there. 

283 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


He  was  standing  before  the  fainting  fire,  and  made 
as  if  to  warm  his  fingers,  although  he  was  not  cold. 
He  advanced  to  meet  her  without  speaking. 

One  of  the  long  windows  was  open  and  unscreened. 
A  creeper  of  woodbine,  beginning  to  be  crimson,  blew 
between  the  lace  draperies  as  if  it  were  trying  to  get 
into  the  room.  She,  too,  did  not  speak,  but  went  up 
nervously  and  broke  off  the  woodbine. 

"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it,"  were  the  first  words 
she  said. 

"Why?" 

"Oh  —  how  can  I  tell ?  It  intrudes.  It  looks  as  if 
it  were  trying  to  get  hold  of  something." 

"It  is  the  nature  of  tendrils  to  cling,"  he  suggested, 
smiling,  but  it  was  not  a  happy  smile;  and  when,  with 
a  forced  determination,  she  lifted  her  face  to  his,  she 
found  it  fixed  with  a  fatal  seriousness.  He  had  her 
book  in  his  hand,  and  she  thought  he  had  read  the 
poem  that  she  was  afraid  to.  It  was  Tennyson's 
"  Love  and  Duty."  He  shut  the  book  and  put  it  upon 
the  table  where  it  lay  between  them. 

"This  is  strong,"  he  said,  "but  it  does  not  close  the 
subject." 

"What  does?"  asked  Allyria,  suddenly. 

"We  must  find  out  for  ourselves,"  responded 
Murray.  "No  man,  no  woman,  can  judge,  can  decide 
for  any  other.  By  the  way,"  he  added  lightly,  as  if  he 
had  been  making  a  conventional  call,  "I  brought  my 

284 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


car  along.  The  evening  is  so  warm  —  and  there  will 
be  a  moon  if  the  clouds  break.  Will  you  ride  with 
me?" 

"No,"  said  Allyria,  distinctly. 

He  could  see  her  hand,  with  the  woodbine  in  it, 
clench  where  she  had  laid  it  against  the  lace  upon 
her  breast. 

"I  am  sorry,"  suggested  Murray,  gently.  "I 
thought  you  would.  We  can  talk  here  if  you  would 
rather.  I  wish  to  talk  —  I  have  some  things  to  say." 

Allyria  had  sat  down,  and  he  towered  above  her; 
rather  she  had  sunk  down,  and  sat  breathless. 

"  I  don't  think,"  she  panted,  "  that  I  had  better  hear 
what  you  have  to  say." 

"Pardon  me."  A  delicate  deprecation  was  in 
Murray's  voice.  "I  shall  say  nothing  that  you  do 
not  choose  to  hear.  I  came  to  ask  the  honor  of  your 
company  for  a  ride  in  my  touring  car." 

"What  time  should  we  get  back  ?  "  Allyria  did  not 
look  at  him;  but  he  gazed  at  her  tenaciously. 

"That  is  for  you  to  say.  I  am  at  your  command, 
absolutely,  always.  You  know  that." 

"If  we  could  get  back  quite  early — "  wavered 
Allyria.  When  she  found  that  he  did  not  reply,  she 
lifted  her  eyes  timidly.  His  received  them  with  a 
formidable  intentness.  He  watched  her  in  a  steady 
silence  which  had  the  effect  of  argument. 

Now  suddenly  Mrs.  Grenfell  thrust  outward  and 
285 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


upward  both  her  hands.  It  was  as  if  her  flesh  pleaded 
for  mercy  which  her  spirit  would  not  ask.  As  she 
did  this,  the  crimson  woodbine  dropped  from  her 
bosom  to  her  lap,  and  from  her  lap  to  the  floor.  He 
stooped  without  a  word,  and  wound  it  like  a  bracelet 
on  her  wrist. 

"There,"  he  observed  in  a  commonplace,  com 
fortable  tone,  "shall  we  take  a  ride?  " 

"I  will  get  my  coat  and  things,"  she  said.  But  she 
delayed,  fumbling  at  the  vine  on  her  wrist,  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  tear  it  off.  Murray  stood  perfectly 
still  and  scrutinized  her. 

"No,"  she  said  to  herself,  "it  is  not  friendship." 

She  had  long  known  as  much  as  that.  But  she  had 
never  before  admitted  that  she  knew.  The  signifi 
cance  of  the  moment  seemed  to  her  as  irrevocable 
as  birth  or  death. 

She  stood  looking  about  her  with  a  frightened  ex 
pression.  Every  detail  in  the  room  projected  itself 
upon  her.  The  oaken  arms  of  the  ceiling  stretched 
and  wrung  themselves  above  her  head.  The  books  in 
the  tall  cases  seemed  to  retreat  upon  their  shelves. 
The  fire  was  cold  within  the  grate,  and  the  dull  gold 
panels  on  the  walls  darkened  to  a  chilly  brown.  She 
was  so  sure  that  the  fingers  of  the  clock  pointed  at 
her  that  she  could  have  screamed.  He  stood  silently 
by  the  yellow  reading-lamp.  But  she  did  not  look  at 
him. 

286 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


She  came  down  in  her  automobile  coat,  her  hat  tied 
with  yards  of  pearl-colored  chiffon.  Murray  stood  in 
his  touring  coat  and  cap.  Janet  held  the  door  open. 

"You  will  want  your  rubber  coat,"  the  girl  said 
anxiously,  "in  case  it  should  storm." 

"Oh,  it  will  not  storm,"  replied  Mrs.  Grenfell. 
"Will  it  ?  "  She  did  not  look  at  Janet,  but  at  Murray. 

"And  the  little  bag,  in  case  of  an  accident "  -  per 
sisted  Janet  —  "  you  will  find  it  folded  in  the  coat." 

"Oh,  there  will  not  be  an  accident,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Grenfell.  "We  shall  not  break  down,  Janet.  But  if 
we  do — if  we  did,  I  should —  Could  we  ride  towards 
my  cousin's,  Mrs.  Herman  Joselyn's?"  she  asked, 
abruptly  turning  to  Murray.  "Then,  if  anything  did 
happen,  Janet,  I  could  telephone  you  from  there." 

"If  Mr.  Grenfell  should  return,"  the  girl  suggested 
timidly,  "I  shall  tell  him  that?" 

"Mr.  Grenfell  will  not  return." 

"Or  if  he  should  telephone,  Madam?" 

"Mr.  Grenfell  will  not  telephone.  He  telegraphed 
this  noon.  He  will  remain  in  Chicago  until  he  starts 
for  California.  Mr.  Grenfell  will  be  in  California  for 
some  months." 

On  the  upper  step  she  turned.  "  You  may  ex 
pect  me  by  ten  o'clock,  Janet." 

Murray  had  not  spoken,  but  listened  deferentially 
to  her  nervous  words.  When  he  helped  her  into  the 
car  he  dismissed  the  chauffeur. 

287 


THE  SACRED  FIRE 


"Oh!"  she  protested,  with  a  little  conventional 
cry,  "is  n't  Stokes  going,  too?  " 

But  Murray  answered,  "I  like  to  do  my  own 
steering  in  the  dark." 

He  gave  directions  in  a  lowered  voice  to  £>tokes. 
Mrs.  Grenfell  sat  trying  not  to  hear  them.  She  did 
not  look  at  her  own  house,  where  Janet,  in  a  narrow 
gleam  of  light,  still  held  the  front  door  ajar.  Stokes 
stood  with  his  finger  at  his  cap,  and  the  car  started 
slowly.  Allyria  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  straight  before 
her.  She  felt,  although  she  did  not  see,  that  Murray 
was  seated  beside  her  with  his  long  gauntleted  hand 
upon  the  wheel. 

He  was  a  careful  driver,  and  he  wove  through  the 
streets  of  the  city  with  deliberation.  Allyria  observed 
his  light,  firm  touch  upon  the  wheel.  A  crude  sense  of 
his  masculine  skill  and  strength  aroused  her  admira 
tion.  She  ventured  for  the  first  time  to  glance  at  his 
massive  figure  buttoned  to  the  chin  in  the  long  coat. 
His  visor  cast  a  shadow  on  his  face.  They  rode  in  a 
silence  which  embarrassed  her,  but  she  did  not  break 
it.  He  drove  slowly  through  the  lower  city,  and  chose 
the  suburban  boulevard  which  led  to  the  home  of 
her  relative,  as  she  had  asked.  She  perceived  this  with 
a  curiously  mingled  sense  of  pleasure  and  of  regret. 

Up  to  this  time  he  had  not  spoken  one  word,  and 
had  driven  at  a  very  leisurely  pace.  Now,  as  the 
street  and  the  night  widened  before  them  he  let  the 

288 


THE  SACRED  FIRE 


car  out.   The  first  thing  he  said  was,  "Did  he  really 
send  you  that  message  this  afternoon?  " 

"Why  not?  It  is  like  him." 

"And  you  did  not  know  that  he  was  going  to  Cal 
ifornia  when  he  left  you  —  when  he  left  home  ?  The 
telegram  was  the  first  you  heard  of  it  ?  " 

"He  goes  where  he  chooses;  he  does  what  he 
pleases,"  replied  Allyria,  drearily. 

Murray  bit  off  an  oath  between  his  teeth. 

"Why  should  you  mind  it,"  asked  Allyria,  "if  I  do 
not?"  ' 

"Not  the  discourtesy?  Not  the  neglect?" 

"We  agreed  not  to  mind,"  said  Allyria.  "You  see, 
if  you  did  not  care  enough  to  mind  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"I  see,"  replied  Murray.  Their  acquaintance  had 
long  since  passed  the  invisible  line  on  the  other  side 
of  which  one  preserves  the  transparent  but  dignified 
fictions  that  conceal  domestic  misery.  For  a  year  he 
had  known  how  unhappy  she  was,  and  had  smoked 
his  midnights  out,  thinking  the  situation  through;  he 
felt  that  somebody  must,  and  he  knew  that  she  did 
not.  He  recognized  perfectly  that  there  was  no  escape 
for  her  in  the  respectable  solution  called  divorce. 
Jackson  Grenfell  had  bruised  his  wife  with  chronic 
indifference,  and  broken  her  with  most  of  the  other 
vices.  But  he  had  never  flayed  her  alive  with  the 
fragments  of  the  seventh  commandment.  In  his  way, 
Grenfell  was  a  decent  fellow;  which  was,  in  a  sense, 

289 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


the  worst  of  it.  Murray  thought  of  him  not  unjustly, 
only  contemptuously. 

"  You  can't  bear  much  more,"  he  said,  in  a  shattered 
voice. 

"You  have  helped  me  to  bear  it,"  said  Allyria, 
plaintively.  "  I  have  thought,  I  hoped,  that  this  feel 
ing  —  we  used  to  call  it  friendship  —  it  has  been  a 
comfort  to  me.  I  thought  it  would  go  on  forever. 
I  thought  it  was  not  like  the  other." 

"What  other?"  demanded  Murray. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  if  he  had  so  much  as  turned 
his  head  he  would  have  weakened  the  tragedy  of  his 
words.  He  drove  rapidly,  looking  straight  before 
him.  They  had  now  left  the  boulevard,  and  were 
whirling  through  smooth  suburban  lands,  into  a 
yawning  country  where  the  lights  were  dim  and 
few,  and  great  ambushes  of  shadow  swallowed 
them. 

With  the  increasing  motion  of  the  machine  Allyria's 
mind  and  heart  spun  madly.  His  presence,  his  near 
ness,  their  solitude,  the  silence  of  the  deserted  roads, 
their  separateness  from  every  other  form  of  life  except 
their  mutual  attraction,  moved  her  to  an  emotion 
which  at  once  entranced  and  terrified  her.  At  mo 
ments  she  felt  exalted,  as  if  she  had  been  lifted 
into  mid-ether,  and  as  if  she  were  flying  from  star  to 
star.  She  had  a  sense  of  something  like  spiritual 
ecstasy.  Then  it  was  as  if  she  plunged,  and  found 

290 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


herself  in  a  shoreless  and  bottomless  abyss  where  she 
drowned  from  depth  to  depth. 

There  was  no  moon,  as  he  had  promised  her,  for 
the  clouds  had  massed  upon  it.  The  wind  was  rising, 
and  drove  in  their  faces  and  down  their  throats. 

She  dared  not  look  at  Cecil  Murray.  In  the  broad 
car  she  shrank  away  from  him.  She  would  not  have 
allowed  her  soft  shoulder  to  touch  his  arm  —  no,  not 
for  her  soul's  life.  She  was  afraid,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  said  to  herself  that  she  was  afraid. 

The  machine  now  ran  like  a  fugitive,  and  swayed 
from  side  to  side.  Murray  experienced  the  immoral 
madness  of  speed.  In  the  open  country  the  languor 
ous  perfumes  of  dying  summer  swam  from  the  late 
September  night.  Gulfs  beyond  gulfs  of  warm  dark 
ness  opened  before  the  two.  Through  these  the  car 
flew  with  a  recklessness  which  she  was  surprised  to 
find  did  not  alarm  her.  Once,  when  they  blew  by  a 
kerosene  street  lamp,  he  turned  and  regarded  her. 

Her  long  veil  wavered  about  her  head  and  throat 
like  smoke.  Out  of  it  her  face  blazed  —  fire-white. 
As  the  car  dashed  around  a  corner  of  the  village  street 
an  onset  of  wind  took  the  veil  and  twisted  it  around 
and  around  Murray's  neck.  The  thing  was  faint 
with  the  perfume  of  her  hair,  her  cheek.  They  sat 
united  in  that  yoke  of  gauze. 

"  God  help  us!  "he  said. 

Allyria's  face  was  as  bewildered  as  a  lost  child's. 
291 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


But  the  man's  was  definite  and  fixed.  It  assumed  an 
expression  that  she  had  never  seen,  and  before  which 
she  felt  the  pitiable  helplessness  which  is  the  doom 
of  woman.  As  she  sat  with  her  chin  upturned  appeal  - 
ingly  through  the  haze  of  her  veil,  drops  dashed 
upon  their  heads.  She  was  the  first  to  recover  herself. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "there  is  going  to  be  a  storm! 
There  is  a  storm!  " 

"We  will  find  your  rubber  coat,"  he  said  soothingly. 

He  buttoned  the  coat  at  her  throat.  She  perceived 
that  his  fingers  trembled.  In  an  instant  the  wind  had 
risen  to  a  gale.  Before  they  could  say,  "It  rains,"  a 
deluge  opened  upon  them.  There  was  a  menace  of 
distant  thunder,  and  then  a  roar  in  which  they  could 
not  hear  each  other  speak.  Allyria  wailed  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  wish  we  had  brought  Stokes  along  —  or 
Janet!  How  far  are  we  from  Anna  Joselyn's ?  " 

In  the  turmoil  Murray  could  not  hear  the  words, 
but  he  understood  the  tone. 

"Compose  yourself,"  he  said  gently,  "I  will  get 
you  to  Joselyn's  —  if  I  can." 

Now,  suddenly  and  strangely,  the  woman's  emotion 
reacted  upon  itself.  At  once,  she  did  not  think  it 
important  whether  she  went  to  Anna  Joselyn's.  They 
were  spinning  through  a  tunnel  of  willows  which  over 
arched  a  deserted  street.  He  slackened  the  pace  of  the 
car,  and  brought  it  to  a  stop  in  the  cone  of  darkness. 
Down  this  the  acetylene  lamps  searched.  Behind 

292 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


the  man  and  woman  their  road  was  shut  in  blackness, 
and  before  them  they  could  see  but  a  very  little  way. 
There  was  something  inexpressibly  wild  in  this 
unrelated  light;  as  if  it  served  to  cut  them  off  from 
rather  than  unite  them  to  the  common  world.  She 
felt  that  he  had  changed  his  position,  and  that  his  hand 
crept  toward  her. 

"Why  do  you  stop?"  asked  Allyria.  Then  she 
uttered  a  low  cry.  "My  hand!  You  have  hurt  my 
hand ! ' '  She  held  up  her  smarting  fingers  in  the  dark. 
"I  burned  them.  It  was  just  before  you  came.  I 
could  not  get  my  glove  on.  It  aches  a  good  deal.  And 
you  —  and  you  - 

"How  did  it  happen?  "  cried  Murray,  savage  with 
remorse.  "Why  did  you  not  tell  me?  What  have  you 
been  doing?" 

But  Allyria  shook  her  head.  "It  is  nothing,"  she 
pleaded.  "I  do  not  want  to  talk  about  it  —  not  to 
you."  The  emphasis  on  the  last  word  was  not  too  fine 
for  Murray's  acute  ear. 

He  unwound  the  veil  fiercely  from  his  neck,  and  set 
both  hands  upon  the  wheel.  The  car  leaped,  and  ran. 
It  dashed  out  of  the  willow  tunnel  like  a  thing  pursued. 
They  shot  into  a  long  country  road,  feebly  lighted,  and 
sparsely  settled.  Again,  beneath  a  smoking  street 
lamp  they  turned  and  stared  at  each  other.  In  the 
anger  of  the  storm  she  leaned  a  little  toward  him. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  she  said;  "I  do  not  care. 
293 


THE  SACRED  FIRE 


Go  where  you  please.  You  know  best  what  we  ought 
to  do." 

The  words  were  taken  from  her  bleached  lips  by 
a  bolt  of  blue  lightning,  and  the  two  bent  beneath  a 
tempest  in  which  heaven  and  earth  and  hell  had 
become  indistinguishable.  The  man,  recalled  by  the 
inexorable  responsibilities  of  his  position,  felt  his  way 
gravely  through  the  alternations  of  glare  and  gloom, 
whoseominous  acceleration  seemed  to  him  lessdanger- 
ous  than  the  alternations  of  their  own  emotion.  But  the 
woman  had  ceased  to  cherish  responsibility  —  she  had 
cast  it  solidly  upon  him ;  he  felt  that  she  was  not  helping 
him,  and  that  she  might  not  help  him  any  more.  They 
rode  at  a  creeping  pace  through  the  streets  of  a  drip 
ping,  empty  village.  The  car  cowered  before  the  storm 
which  chased  and  flogged  its  occupants.  Drenched 
and  bewildered,  Allyria  clung  to  a  fold  of  Murray's 
long  coat. 

Her  lips  moved.  She  tried  to  say,  "I  never  saw 
such  lightning  in  my  life."  But  he  could  not  hear  her. 
She  added  a  few  words.  Afterwards  she  did  not  know 
whether  she  were  sorry  or  glad  that  he  had  not  heard 
those.  She  felt  more  exalted  than  terrified.  It  was  to 
her  as  if  they  two  were  driving  through  space  upon  a 
meteorite,  detached  from  some  time-worn  planet,  and 
falling  upon  a  new  one,  uninhabited,  and  therefore 
without  history.  She  did  not  rebel  against  the  man 
any  more  than  the  machine  did. 

294 


THE  SACRED   FIRE 


She  had  yielded  her  fate  so  dreamily,  so  utterly  to 
his  guidance  that  she  asked  no  questions  when  she 
felt  the  car  swerve  abruptly  from  the  village  road 
and  take  a  mighty  bound  into  the  dark.  Quivering 
through  every  metal  nerve,  the  automobile  stopped 
short.  Bars  of  crimson  fire  like  the  grating  of  a  mighty 
gate  scorched  the  sky  as  Murray  leaped,  and  held  up 
his  arms  to  her. 

"  Get  out ! "  he  cried.  "  This  will  be  a  hurricane  for 
aught  I  know.  Jump!" 

"Are  we  at  Cousin  Anna's  ?  "  wavered  Mrs.  Grenfell. 

"No  matter  where  we  are !  Come,  I  tell  you !  Come ! " 

Not  knowing  why,  not  knowing  where,  and  not 
caring  very  much,  Allyria  sprang.  His  arms  received 
but  did  not  retain  her.  He  grasped  her  burned  hand; 
even  then,  he  remembered  to  take  her  by  the  wrist 
so  that  he  should  not  hurt  her;  and  she  heard  him 
say,  "Run!" 

As  they  pushed  on,  scrambling  and  struggling  with 
the  tornado,  she  was  aware  of  indistinct  articulation, 
and  that  the  voice  was  other  than  his.  A  light,  neither 
blood -red,  nor  demon  blue,  nor  ghastly  white — a  light 
not  from  the  scarified  heavens,  but  of  the  human 
earth  —  streamed  upon  her,  and  she  stumbled  into  it. 
She  now  perceived  that  Murray  had  driven  the  auto 
mobile  into  the  front  yard  of  a  country  home;  the 
machine  stood  trembling  like  a  frightened  dog  beneath 
a  large  elm  in  whose  veins  ran  the  blood  of  a  hundred 

"  295 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


years;  she  felt  that  she  crushed  the  life  out  of  some 
drenched  garden  flowers  as  she  ran  away  from  the 
tree.  The  house  was  small,  and  painted  white;  its 
front  door  was  thrown  wide,  and  brightly  lighted 
from  within.  The  two,  pelted  by  rain  and  chased  by 
thunder,  followed  the  gleam,  and  came  panting  to  the 
wooden  steps. 

A  woman  stood  in  the  doorway.  She  held  one  hand 
at  her  temples  to  peer  out;  but  the  other  was  occu 
pied  by  a  crutch  whose  fellow  leaned  against  her  dark 
woolen  dress.  She  was  a  tall,  rather  comely  woman 
of  composed  manners.  When  she  said,  — 

"Come  in!  Why,  come  right  in!"  there  was  felt  to 
be  a  compelling  quality  in  her  voice;  it  was  not,  to 
Murray's  surprise,  what  one  calls  an  uncultivated 
voice.  He  lifted  his  cap  from  his  dripping  forehead. 

"  Madam,"  he  began,  "we  have  taken  the  liberty — " 

"Why,  of  course,"  interrupted  the  woman.  "I  am 
sorry  you  should  have  chosen  so  stormy  a  night. 
This  way.  Be  so  good  as  to  shut  the  door  —  it  beats 
in  so.  The  lady  had  better  take  her  wet  coat  right  off. 
Will  you  hang  it  on  the  hat -tree  for  her  ?  You  see  I 
am  a  little  disabled.  I  will  call  my  husband.  Come 
right  in.  The  parlor  is  dark,  but  we  will  have  every 
thing  as  pretty  as  possible  for  you  in  a  minute.  —  Mr. 
Titus !  Mr.  Titus ! "  Then,  "  He  must  be  in  the  barn 
talking  to  the  horse,"  she  added.  "  Our  old  horse  is  so 
afraid  of  thunder  —  we  always  go  out  and  speak  to 

296 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


her  about  it.  There!  I  hear  him  in  the  kitchen.  He 
will  light  up  for  you  directly.  If  you  will  please  find 
some  seats  till  he  gets  here?" 

She  slipped  the  second  crutch  beneath  her  arm,  and 
swung  herself  across  the  oilcloth  of  the  narrow  entry. 
The  two,  dripping  on  the  carpet  (it  was  plainly  the 
parlor  carpet)  of  the  dim  room  into  which  they  had 
been  ushered,  heard  from  the  lips  of  their  hostess 
these  unexpected  words, 

"Abel!  Abel!  Father!  Mr.  Titus!  Here  are  some 
people  —  in  all  this  storm — who  want  to  be  married.'7 

The  master  of  the  house  came  in  with  a  kerosene 
lamp  in  his  hand;  he  found  the  man  and  woman  of 
the  world  touched  with  an  obvious  embarrassment 
which  appeared  to  arouse  in  him  no  surprise  what 
ever.  He  was  a  person  of  some  presence,  with  a 
good  pulpit  figure,  neatly  dressed  in  clerical  black, 
much  worn,  and  he  made  at  once  the  impression  that 
his  experience  was  as  white  as  his  hair.  Although  he 
had  what  one  calls  the  Christian  eyes,  they  were 
direct  and  keen;  the  glance  which  he  aimed  at  his 
guests  returned  upon  itself  with  a  slightly  baffled 
expression.  It  occurred  to  Murray  that  their  host 
was  not  lacking  in  a  sense  of  humor,  and  that  he 
shared  to  an  extent  with  them  the  amusement  of  the 
travelers  at  finding  themselves  derelicts  of  the  storm, 
shipwrecked  upon  a  country  parsonage. 

They  stood  in  a  plain  room.  It  evidently  was  no 
297 


THE  SACRED  FIRE 


unused  vault,  like  the  parlors  of  the  farmers  and 
mechanics,  its  neighbors,  but  quite  accustomed  to 
society.  A  brown  tapestry  carpet  of  a  small  pattern 
met  a  pale  cartridge  paper  which  mercifully  relieved 
a  few  religious  engravings.  Above  the  mantel  was  one 
secular  picture :  a  framed  photograph  of  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton's  "  Wedded."  In  the  fireplace  the  wood 
was  laid,  but  not  lighted.  There  was  a  centre-table 
with  books,  and  a  metal  lamp.  The  minister  lighted 
the  bright,  hot  lamp  while  he  said  with  a  hospitable 
wave  of  the  burned  match,  "Pray  be  seated." 

For  the  two  were  still  standing,  with  an  awkward 
ness  foreign  to  their  class. 

"I  am  afraid  we  are  almost  too  wet,"  ventured 
Mrs.  Grenfell,  but  she  sat  down  upon  a  brown  rep 
sofa.  Murray  remained  standing. 

"I  must  go  out  and  see  to  my  car,"  he  suggested, 
"as  soon  as  the  storm  holds  up." 

"This  has  been  as  near  a  hurricane  as  we  are  apt 
to  get  in  this  climate,"  observed  the  minister,  "and 
I  fear  that  you  must  have  borne  the  brunt  of  it. 
The  lady  will  have  suffered.  Let  her  come  to  our 
hearth." 

He  stooped  and  struck  a  match  to  the  fire.  Mrs. 
Grenfell  went  up  and  put  her  narrow  feet  upon  the 
fender.  Her  skirts  were  wet.  A  soft  voice  welled  at 
her  side,  "What  a  pity !  Can't  I  lend  you  something  ?  " 

The  minister's  wife  stood  eagerly,  moving  up  a 
298 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


little  stand,  which  she  pushed  with  one  of  her  crutches. 
The  tray  held  sponge  cake  and  unfermented  grape 
juice  —  plainly,  the  usual  entertainment  offered  by 
the  parsonage  to  its  bridal  couples. 

"And  now,  sir,"  said  the  minister,  holding  out  his 
hand,  "you  have  the  license,  I  presume?  You  will 
understand,  of  course,  that  it  is  necessary  for  me  to 


examine  it." 


"You  have  mistaken  the  nature  of  our  errand," 
replied  Murray,  setting  his  shaven  lips  together.  "It 
is  not  what  you  very  naturally  supposed."  His  long, 
cynical  face  paled  a  little.  "We  were  taking  a  ride 
in  my  touring  car,  and  were  overtaken  by  the  shower. 
All  we  seek  under  your  roof,  sir,  is  shelter  until  the 
storm  has  passed." 

The  words  beat  like  a  bell  in  Allyria's  brain,  and 
seemed  to  hit  through  and  knock  from  temple  to  tem 
ple  on  either  side.  Her  face  scorched  so  that  she 
made  a  feint  of  removing  her  veil,  and  in  so  doing, 
managed  for  a  moment  to  shrink  behind  the  gauze. 

"All  we  seek  is  shelter  —  all  we  seek  is  shelter  till 
the  storm  has  passed."  Her  mind  repeated  the 
phrase  automatically. 

"Ah?"  said  the  minister,  with  a  slow,  rising  in 
flection,  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

As  he  spoke,  the  house  quivered  to  its  skeleton, 
and  such  a  billow  of  wind  was  followed  by  such  a 
concussion  that  the  four  occupants  of  the  parsonage 

299 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


parlor  got  to  their  feet  in  one  huddled  group.  Allyria 
trembled  with  fright,  and  Murray  instinctively 
stepped  to  her  side.  Their  hands  reached  to  each 
other,  but  fell  apart.  The  minister  put  his  arm  about 
the  waist  of  his  lame  wife,  who  leaned  more  upon 
him  than  upon  her  crutches.  An  arrow  of  lightning 
seemed  to  try  to  enter  the  room,  but  to  be  driven 
back  by  the  lamplight  and  the  firelight.  Murray 
wondered  if  he  could  be  mistaken  in  thinking  that 
the  husband  and  wife  had  glanced  at  their  guests,  and 
exchanged  a  significant,  if  not  a  solemn  look. 

"The  rain  is  lessening,"  remarked  Cecil  Murray, 
uncomfortably,  as  soon  as  he  could.  "I  will  go  out 
between  the  drops  and  see  to  my  machine." 

"Allow  me  to  be  of  any  assistance  to  you  that  I 
can,"  said  the  Reverend  Abel  Titus,  heartily.  "  Ruth, 
my  dear?  This  room  is  pretty  warm.  Shall  I  open 
the  window  for  you  before  I  step  out  ?  " 

The  minister's  wife  nodded  and  smiled,  over  her 
crutches. 

"Thank  you,  Father.  You  always  think  of  every 
thing."  She  tossed  the  words  at  him  as  if  they  had 
been  a  kiss. 

The  two  men  went  out,  and  the  women  were  left 
together.  Mrs.  Grenfell  did  not  look  at  Murray  as 
he  passed  her.  She  had  resumed  her  seat  by  the  fire, 
which  was  now  blazing  cordially,  and  she  sat  trying 
to  get  dry;  she  had  folded  her  green  cloth  skirt  back 

300 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


from  her  silk  petticoat.  She  felt  that  the  eyes  of  her 
hostess  rested  upon  her  fixedly;  in  them  was  a  curious 
union  of  expressions  which  only  a  woman  could  have 
understood.  A  sheer  feminine  interest  in  the  costume 
of  the  stranger  battled  with  something  like  a  sense 
of  moral  responsibility  for  her  which  the  guest  was 
astonished  to  find  that  she  did  not  resent.  The 
quality  of  a  dark  green  broadcloth  dress,  the  silk 
frills  upon  a  petticoat,  also  green,  the  size  of ^  damp, 
dainty  boot,  the  tint  and  texture  of  a  long  chiffon  veil, 
the  pattern  and  nature  of  the  cream  lace  showing 
beneath  an  imported  and  embroidered  jacket  —  these 
things  the  pastor's  wife  was  not  too  old  or  too  religious 
to  estimate  for  what  they  represented.  But  clothes 
never  muddled  Mrs.  Titus.  She  had  been  able  to 
perceive  that  she  was  not  entertaining  an  adventuress, 
over-dressed,  and  under-bred.  In  five  minutes  she 
had  classified  Mrs.  Grenfell  correctly. 

"Are  you  quite  comfortable,  dear?"  asked  the 
hostess.  She  had  a  motherly  manner  to  which 
Allyria  felt  all  the  child  in  her  nature  —  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  it  —  turn  and  lean.  "You  are 
sure  I  could  n't  lend  you  anything  ?  I  have  one  black 
silk  dress  —  " 

Allyria  shook  her  head ;  she  had  not  yet  found  her 
self  able  to  speak.   She  had  a  vision  of  that  silk  - 
the  country  dressmaking  —  the  sacredness  of  the 
material —  the  pathetic  way  in  which  it  was  cherished. 

301 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


Then  poignantly  she  felt  that  she  would  not  have  been 
worthy  to  wear  that  old  black  silk.  She  sat  looking 
straight  at  the  fire.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  how  sel 
dom  the  parsonage  could  afford  an  open  wood  fire. 
She  had  never  thought  of  fuel  as  costing  anything. 

"You  see  we  have  a  little  wood-lot,"  explained 
Mrs.  Titus,  as  if  she  apologized  for  an  extravagance 
that  must  be  apparent  to  all  classes  of  society.  "Mr. 
Titus  saws  and  chops  it  himself.  I  don't  know  of  any 
thing  like  an  open  fire  —  it's  so  homey,  isn't  it? 
There  is  only  one  other  thing  makes  me  feel  the  same 
way.  That 's  sunsets.  But  it 's  quite  different,  after 
all;  it  is  only  the  lightness  and  the  deepness  that  are 
alike.  Sunsets  carry  you  up;  they  lift  you  out  of 
everything  —  like  good  music,  or  thinking  about 
heaven.  But  an  open  fire  —  your  own  open  fire  — 
why,  that  keeps  you  at  home,  and  makes  you  love  to 
be  there,  and  makes  you  thank  God  you  've  got  one. 
And  I  'd  rather  be  at  home  than  in  heaven,  any  day 
—  at  least  —  except  for  one  thing,"  added  the  min 
ister's  wife,  with  a  sudden  reserve. 

It  had  not  yet  suggested  itself  to  Allyria,  but  it  did 
a  little  after,  that  the  woman's  freedom  of  speech  was 
not  natural  to  her,  and  might  be  the  accident  of  em 
barrassment,  or  of  some  other  state  of  mind  and  feel 
ing,  not  quite  clear. 

"Has  your  husband  broken  his  machine?"  asked 
the  pastor's  wife,  so  naturally  that  it  was  impossible 

302 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


to  take  offense  at  the  question.  "They  usually  do. 
They  break  as  easily  as  a  woman's  heart  —  those 
great  metal  things.  I  have  noticed  that." 

She  chattered  on,  giving  her  guest  full  time  to  re 
cover  herself  and  say:  — 

"The  gentleman  is  not  my  husband.  My  hus 
band  is  away  from  home.  His  business  calls  him  to 
California.  It  is  an  old  family  friend,  and  I  —  I 
went  to  ride  with  him.  We  meant  to  go  to  my  cousin's, 
Mrs.  Herman  Joselyn's.  How  far  is  that  from  here  ?  " 

"Oh,  not  far  at  all,  not  quite  a  mile.  We  know 
Mrs.  Joselyn.  She  comes  to  our  church,  summers. 
That  must  be  very  hard  —  what  you  say  about  your 
husband  being  away  —  that  he  should  go  to  Califor 
nia  without  you.  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  that. 
Mr.  Titus  and  I  —  why,  we  have  never  been  separated 
for  a  week  —  I  mean  not  since  the  first  year.  Once, 
he  went  to  a  convention  and  was  gone  four  days. 
We  have  been  married  thirty-seven  years.  But  then 
I  don't  suppose  there  are  any  other  husbands  like 
Mr.  Titus.  When  I  think  of  what  he  has  been  to  me 
—  what  he  has  done  for  me  —  ': 

"What  has  he  been?  What  has  he  done? "  inter 
rupted  the  visitor,  turning  down  the  hem  of  her 
broadcloth  dress  to  dry  the  lower  edge  before  the 
brilliant  fire. 

"Why,  he  has  loved  me,  that  is  all,"  replied  the 
elder  wife. 

303 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


A  blighting  bitterness  froze  across  Allyria's  face. 
She  thrust  out  her  hands  to  the  placid  parsonage 
fire;  the  woodbine  bracelet  shook  upon  her  wrist. 
The  pastor's  wife  was  silent  for  a  moment;  it  was  as 
if  she  collected  her  courage  before  she  said,  very 
slowly:  — 

"This  is  the  house  of  a  Protestant  priest.  We  are 
used  to  caring  for  strangers  —  the  minister  and  I. 
Many  persons  ask  Mr.  Titus  for  his  advice,  and  some 
—  they  are  more  likely  to  be  women  —  talk  with 
me.  Even  if  we  cannot  help,  don't  you  see,  it  does 
good  sometimes  just  to  speak  ?  Our  life  —  I  don't 
know  how  to  make  you  understand  it  —  but  our  life 
has  been  a  life  of  listening  to  what  other  people  had 
to  say  about  themselves.  I  tell  you  this  so  that  you 
may  not  think  me  rude;  so  that  you  may  forgive  me 
if  I  say  too  much.  My  dear,  I  am  older  than  you. 
I  have  lived  a  harder  life.  It  has  been  a  different 
one;  I  understand  that  as  well  as  you  do.  But  I 
know  a  troubled  woman  when  I  see  one.  If  there 
were  anything  in  the  world  I  could  do —  Don't! 
Oh,  don't!  You  would  be  sorry  to  break  down  before 
him.  He  may  come  in  any  minute.  Is  n't  there  any 
thing  that  you  would  like  to  say  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Allyria,  dashing  some  scorching  tears 
from  her  cheeks.  "I  haven't  anything  to  say.  You 
would  not  understand.  You  have  been  too  happy. 
You  have  never  been  —  perplexed.  Did  you  ever 

304 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


ride  through  the  willows  on  a  mad  machine  in  a 
hurricane  and  in  the  dark?" 

"No,"  said  the  minister's  wife,  gently.  "We  have 
taken  the  old  horse,  and  jogged  along  the  road." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Allyria,  triumphantly,  "What 
do  you  know  about  it  ?  " 

"You  look  faint,"  replied  the  hostess.  "Suppose 
you  try  the  grape-juice.  I  made  it  myself,  for  our 
brides.  Just  a  swallow  ?  It 's  the  same  we  use  at  the 
Sacrament." 

Allyria  put  the  holy  wine  to  her  lips,  but  set  it 
down  untasted. 

"I  —  can't,"  she  pleaded.  She  pushed  the  tray 
away. 

Murray  stood  beneath  the  century-old  elm,  and 
tinkered  his  machine.  The  rain  had  practically 
ceased,  and  the  thunder  complained  from  a  distance. 

"The  storm  is  over,"  he  said  dogmatically,  while 
he  fitted  his  tire. 

"It  is  liable  to  return,"  observed  the  country  par 
son,  holding  the  lantern  higher.  "That  is  the  nature 
of  storms,  you  know  —  such  storms,  I  mean ;  these 
untimely  ones  for  which  nobody  is  prepared.  It  is 
only  the  unaccountable  in  life  which  gets  the  best  of 
us.  We  are  generally  equal  to  what  we  can  under 
stand.  A  dog  or  a  chicken  in  the  country  will  keep  out 
of  the  way  of  any  four-horse  team,  but  the  first  big 
delivery  motor  that  gets  so  far  will  run  them  down." 

305 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


"You  speak  in  parables,"  remarked  Cecil  Murray, 
with  a  guarded  smile. 

"  It  is  a  professional  habit ;  it  dates  a  good  way  back. 
A  Rabbi  in  Palestine  began  it,  two  thousand  years 
ago.  Is  there  any  other  injury  to  your  machine  be 
sides  the  punctured  tire?" 

"None  whatever,"  replied  Murray,  promptly. 
"I  shall  soon  have  this  set,  and  we  shall  be  able  to 
resume  our  ride." 

"  Forwards  ?  Or  backwards  ?  "  asked  the  minister, 
abruptly. 

"I  have  not  decided,"  answered  Murray,  pushing 
his  vi sored  cap  back  from  his  forehead  to  return  the 
direct  look  of  his  host. 

"Then,  if  I  cannot  help  you  in  any  way  —  "  began 
the  minister,  making  as  if  he  would  return  to  the 
house. 

"Not  about  the  tire,  certainly  —  thank  you." 

"  Nor,  I  presume,  as  to  the  direction  of  your  route  ?  " 
ventured  the  other  with  the  self-possession  and  tact 
of  one  whose  life's  business  has  been  to  win  the  souls 
of  men. 

"Every  man's  decisions  are  his  own,"  replied  Mur 
ray,  curtly.  "It  is  his  business." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  argued  the  Reverend  Abel  Titus, 
"every  decision  is  the  business  of  society.  There  is 
a  saying  that  no  man  liveth  to  himself.  It 's  old,  but 
it 's  pretty  true.  Do  I  hold  the  lantern  right  ?  " 

306 


THE  SACRED  FIRE 


"You  have  been  very  kind.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
need  the  light  held  any  more.  It  might  stand  on  that 
stone,  and  save  you  the  trouble." 

"If  you  are  sure  I  cannot  serve  you." 

"Quite  sure,"  said  Murray,  bending  his  tire  com 
posedly. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Titus  bowed,  and  went  into  the 
house.  He  opened  and  shut  the  front  door  softly,  so 
softly  that  he  did  not  disturb  the  two  women;  but, 
as  he  stood  hesitating,  he  heard  a  word  or  two  which 
deterred  him,  and  he  turned  away.  His  feet  made  no 
sound  upon  the  oilcloth  in  the  entry.  He  latched  the 
door  of  his  study  as  if  he  had  been  a  burglar,  or  a 
spirit,  and  sat  down,  thoughtfully,  before  his  old, 
cheap  desk,  among  his  books. 

Cecil  Murray,  under  the  elm  tree,  laid  down  his 
tools  and  wiped  his  hands  carefully  upon  some  wisps 
of  waste.  The  machine  appeared  to  try  to  turn  and 
look  at  him.  His  face  showed  rigid  and  uneasy.  He 
could  not  have  told  why  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
must  not  remain  where  he  was  a  moment  longer.  He 
felt  as  if  invisible  forces  got  behind  him  and  pushed 
him  towards  the  house.  The  glare  of  the  automobile 
lamps  followed,  but  fell  short  of  him.  His  feet,  as 
Allyria's  had  done,  crushed  flowers  as  he  walked 
thoughtlessly  across  the  garden,  and  so  reached  the 
open  window.  His  lips  opened  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Grenfell,  and  tell  her  that  he  was  there,  but  they 

307 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


closed  without  a  word.  No  bolt  from  heaven  could 
have  smitten  him  as  did  the  thing  which  he  heard. 
It  was  the  sound  of  a  single,  stifled  sob  —  a  dry  sob, 
for  Allyria  was  not  crying. 

The  fire  in  the  parsonage  hearth  was  burninggently ; 
it  had  a  steady,  sober  flame.  The  two  women  sat  be 
fore  it,  side  by  side.  Beyond  them  stood  the  little 
table  with  its  sacramental  wine.  He  knew  as  well 
as  if  he  had  been  told  that  Allyria  had  not  touched 
it  —  that  she  had  not  dared. 

One  hand  shielded  her  eyes  from  the  fire.  There 
was  a  splash  upon  her  wrist,  —  it  was  the  crimson  vine 
that  he  had  bound  there.  The  older  woman  was 
speaking;  he  noticed  that  quality  in  her  voice  which 
he  had  observed  at  first ;  it  vibrated  now  with  the  con 
trolled  passion  of  a  person  naturally  reticent,  who  has 
elected  to  lavish  her  personal  experience  for  another's 
sake. 

"We  were  under  age,  and  our  people  wanted  us 
to  wait;  so  we  took  it  into  our  own  hands.  We  ran 
away,  and  got  married.  We  thought  that  was  love. 
But,  my  dear,  it  was  n't.  And  then  came  our  honey 
moon,  and  we  thought  that  was  love.  But  now,  I 
see  it  was  n't.  So,  when  the  honeymoon  was  over  — 
you  are  a  married  woman,  and  you  know.  When 
kissing  turns  into  living,  then  the  tug  begins.  The 
first  time  he  was  cross  to  me  I  thought  my  heart 
would  break.  But  that  wasn't  heartbreak.  When 

308 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


he  had  to  go  to  Chicago  —  to  try  to  find  a  position 
there  —  and  my  baby  was  born  too  soon  while  he  was 
away,  I  thought  I  had  the  worst  trouble  that  could 
happen.  But  that  wasn't  trouble.  Before  he  got 
home  —  he  never  saw  the  little  thing  alive  —  the 
baby  died.  Oh,  did  you  lose  yours,  too  ?  Oh,  I  did  n't 
know!  How  thoughtless  it  was  of  me!  I  am  thought 
less  sometimes,  in  spite  of  all.  Don't  cry!  There, 
there !  Don't !  How  long  did  he  live  ?  Was  his  father 
there  to  help  you  bear  it?" 

"Damn  these  old  people!"  muttered  Murray, 
bringing  his  clenched  fist  down  upon  the  window-sill. 
"What  are  they  doing  to  her?"  He  would  have 
pushed  into  the  house,  but  recalled  himself,  and 
paced  to  and  fro  savagely.  He  was  so  disturbed  that 
he  did  not  notice  the  signs  of  the  returning  storm 
which  spat  upon  him  sullenly  where  he  stood.  As 
yet,  there  was  no  lightning,  and  his  antagonistic 
figure  warred  with  the  shadows  of  an  increasing 
gloom,  out  of  which  he  drove  back  to  the  glimmering 
window  it  seemed,  scarcely  knowing  why,  or  even 
that  he  did  so.  Above  the  two  women  the  clasped 
figures  of  the  wedded  lovers  in  Leighton's  great 
picture  arrested  his  attention.  He  looked  at  the 
picture  with  a  horrible  envy.  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Titus 
crept  on  more  composedly. 

"It  was  the  baby's  dying,  I  think,  that  did  it  all. 
He  never  'got  religion'  in  any  revival  —  he  only  got 

309 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


a  new  way  of  seeing  things.  He  came  home  from  the 
cemetery  one  night  and  said:  'Ruth!  I've  got  it  in 
me  to  go  to  the  devil.  I  've  got  it  in  me  to  go  the 
other  way.  I'm  going  to  tackle  some  job  that  will 
keep  me  straight.  I  am  going  to  be  a  minister,  so 
help  me  God,  and  that  little  dead  thing  out  there! ' 

"You  wouldn't  think  it  now  —  seeing  us  in  this 
poor,  small  parish  —  what  a  preacher  Mr.  Titus  has 
been.  Everybody  that  knows  about  ministers  at  all 
—  but  you  don't.  You  would  know  about  automobiles 
and  polo,  but  not  religious  matters.  My  husband 
had  a  city  church.  He  was  very  successful.  He  was 
an  eminent  preacher.  Fifteen  hundred  people  came 
to  hear  him  Sunday  nights  —  mostly  men,  young 
men;  they  stood  in  the  aisles  to  hear  him;  he  kept  — 
you  could  not  understand  how  many  he  kept  from 
going  wrong.  We  were  very  happy.  We  had  a 
beautiful  home.  He  wasn't  one  thing  there  and 
another  thing  in  the  pulpit.  He  was  so  kind  to  me 
that  I  could  have  knelt  and  kissed  his  feet  —  any 
wife  would  feel  that  way  to  a  kind  husband. 

"And  when  the  other  baby  died,  he  —  he  com 
forted  me  so!  For  every  trouble  we  had  was  half  a 
trouble,  we  bearing  it  together.  And  every  joy  we 
had  was  twice  a  joy,  because  we  had  the  joy  together. 
And  afterwards  our  little  boy  lived  to  be  three  years 
old.  And  we  thought  —  we  expected  —  but  he  died, 
too.  And  that,  you  see,  is  what  I  meant  when  I  spoke 

310 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


of  heaven.  People  write  about  immortality,  and 
reason  this  way  and  that  —  as  if  they  knew!  Three 
dead  children,  my  dear  —  they  make  the  best  argu 
ment  for  immortality  I  have  ever  found. 

"  But  that  was  n't  trouble  either  —  I  mean  we  came 
to  feel  so  afterwards,  because  it  was  so  much  better 
for  the  children,  like  sending  them  into  a  healthier 
climate,  and  because  dying  is  the  least  of  human 
miseries,  after  all,  you  know." 

It  had  now  occurred  to  Cecil  Murray  that  he  was 
exceeding  his  rights  as  a  listener  to  this  pathetic 
feminine  interview,  and  he  stepped  back  suddenly 
from  the  window.  The  movements  of  the  elder 
woman's  lips  —  the  eager  lifting  of  Allyria's  delicate 
brows  —  the  passionate  clasping  and  unclasping  of 
her  hands  —  passed  before  him  like  a  beautiful  pan 
tomime  from  whose  action  he  could  not  rend  himself. 
The  rain  began  to  strike  him  where  he  stood.  The 
returning  storm  was  lulled  by  strange  and  ominous 
calms.  In  these,  broken  sentences  were  tossed  out 
to  him:  — 

"When  I  got  well,  you  see,  I  never  got  well.  I 
could  not  walk.  For  six  months  I  could  not  turn  in 
bed.  It  was  a  year  before  I  put  my  feet  to  the  floor. 
I  said:  'Doctor,  you  call  it  rheumatism;  I  call  it  hell ' 
—  the  wife  of  the  best  man  God  ever  made  —  I 
swore  at  the  doctor.  I  told  him  it  was  damnable. 
But  Mr.  Titus  did  not  hear.  And  the  climate  was 

3" 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


against  me.  And  there  I  lay.  I  went  to  pieces.  I 
lost  my  temper,  I  lost  my  pluck,  I  lost  my  patience, 
I  lost  my  faith,  I  lost  my  looks  —  and  I  don't  care  if 
I  tell  you,  for  you  're  a  woman  —  I  minded  that  most 
of  all. 

"Yes,  I  had  put  three  children  into  their  little 
coffins,  and  borne  it.  I  could  not  bear  it  to  be  a 
crippled  creature.  I  got  perfectly  demoralized.  I 
was  unattractive,  and  unlovable,  and  exacting,  and 
hard  to  live  with,  and  ugly  enough  to  hate.  But  he  — 
he  loved  me  —  in  spite  of  —  everything. 

"My  dear,  he  gave  up  his  great  parish  and  took  me 
South.  We  had  n't  anything  but  our  salary  —  he  took 
me  to  Florida,  and  there  we  stayed.  We  were  so 
poor  as  you  could  never  think  —  oh,  very  poor.  He 
had  some  Sundays'  preaching,  and  we  kept  a  garden, 
and  we  had  a  few  orange  trees,  and  he  tutored  boys 
for  rich  people  that  came  South  winters.  He  took 
care  of  me,  and  lifted  me,  and  did  the  housework  for 
me  (he  said  he  learned  everything  but  how  to  do  up 
bosom  shirts),  and  sitting  up  nights  with  me,  and 
going  without  things  to  eat  to  save  them  for  me!  — 
oh,  he  was  one  of  the  sons  of  God! 

"And  when  I  got  a  little  better  —  for  it  had  been  a 
good  while,  and  the  world  forgets,  and  pulpits  fill  up, 
and  nobody  cares  for  the  absent  man  —  when  we 
came  North  again,  then  his  own  health  had  begun  to 
break.  So  he  found  no  place  but  just  the  little  parishes, 

312 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


and  we  went  from  one  to  another  —  each  one  smaller 
—  and  so  to  this  one  —  but  not  a  word !  Never  a 
word  to  let  me  think  he  was  sorry,  or  that  he  had 
made  any  sacrifice  for  me.  Why,  he  never  seemed  to 
know  that  a  faded,  crippled  wife  had  cost  him  his 
career  —  his  brilliant  career,  so  noble,  so  valuable ! 
And  every  day  he  was  the  same;  hard  times  and 
easier,  hungry  or  fed,  warm  or  shivering  —  for  we 
have  gone  hungry,  and  we  've  been  cold  —  but  never 
love-hungry,  and  never  love-cold  in  all  the  life  we  've 
lived  together.  What  did  you  say  ?  Yes,  that 's  what 
I  call  love.  Don't  cry!  Don't  cry!  " 

An  imprecation  hurled  itself  from  Murray's  lips, 
for  he  saw  that  Allyria  was  weeping  quietly. 

"They  are  playing  on  her  sensibilities,"  he  mut 
tered.  "I  will  take  her  right  away." 

He  made  two  steps  towards  his  car,  but  fell  back, 
staggering  against  the  side  of  the  house.  He  thought 
for  an  instant  that  he  had  gone  black-blind,  and 
should  never  see  again.  A  bolt  of  beautiful  death- 
white  lightning,  like  a  bomb  in  a  bouquet,  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  report  which  shattered  the  skies. 

The  voices  of  the  two  women  within  rose  in  terror. 
The  minister  flung  open  the  front  door  and  ran  down 
the  steps. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  he  called.   "Thank  God!  No  - 
no!   the   house   has   not    been   struck.      It   is   the 
tree." 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


"God!"  cried  Murray,  "there  are  fifteen  gallons  of 
gasoline  in  that  tank!" 

With  the  crude  impulse  of  a  man  to  save  his  ma 
chine,  he  dashed  towards  it,  but  the  minister  gripped 
him  by  the  shoulder  and  held  him  back.  Before  the 
two  women  could  get  out  of  the  house,  the  automo 
bile  flared,  and  exploded  where  it  stood  under  the 
stricken  tree.  Murray  and  the  minister  ran  for  water 
and  the  garden  hose,  but  the  doomed  car  hissed  sul 
lenly  and  blazed  on. 

"Let  it  burn! "  said  Murray,  coldly.  "Water  isn't 
much  use  with  gasoline.  It  won't  last  long.  It's 
too  inflammable.  I  am  sorry  you  have  lost  your 
tree."  He  stood  apart,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  said  no  more.  He  thought,  "  I  never  can  take  her 
to  ride  again  in  that  car." 

The  minister  came  up  and  touched  him  gently  on 
the  arm.  "You  had  a  narrow  escape.  Do  you  know 
it?"  His  kindly  voice  was  agitated. 

"Had  I?"  asked  Murray. 

Allyria  had  made  one  mad  movement  towards  him, 
but  checked  herself.  She  stood  stolidly  in  the  storm. 
She  did  not  seem  to  know  that  it  was  raining.  He 
did  not  look  at  her.  He  did  not  dare. 

The  fire  in  the  parsonage  parlor  burned  as  if  no 
thing  had  happened,  and  the  four  gathered  about  it 
with  the  instinct  of  chill  and  wet  and  danger  for  the 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


human  hearth.     The  Reverend  Mr.  Titus  had  his 
Bible  in  his  hand. 

"  We  are  accustomed,"  he  said,  "at  this  hour  of  the 
evening,  to  hold  family  prayers.  If  you  and  the  lady 
would  like  to  join  with  us  —  sir,  do  you  object?" 

"  We  are  your  guests,"  said  Murray,  in  his  critical, 
cynical  voice.  "We  will  not  interfere  with  the  habit 
of  your  household." 

He  sat  down  beside  Mrs.  Grenfell  on  the  brown 
rep  sofa.  They  did  not  look  at  each  other.  The  min 
ister  read  something  from  the  New  Testament  - 
they  could  not  have  told  what  —  and  then  he  knelt. 
Allyria  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  fire.  But  Murray 
looked  at  the  wedded  lovers  who  clung  above  it. 

The  minister  began  to  pray:  — 

"Lord,  Thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in  all 
generations,  and  in  Thy  hands  are  the  hearts  and  fates 
of  men.  Life  is  a  straight  and  narrow  way.  How 
shall  we  walk  in  it  ?  Death  is  a  gulf  beneath  our 
stumbling  feet.  We  have  tottered  upon  its  edge  to 
night,  and  Thou  hast  remembered  us,  and  Thy 
mighty  arm  has  caught  us  back.  Teach  us  why! 
Make  us  fit  to  learn  for  what  reason  we  have  been 
spared  from  the  arrows  of  the  storm.  We  perceive 
that  life  is  a  great  energy,  and  that  its  decisions,  and 
the  consequences  of  its  elections,  are  still  within  our 
control.  We  thank  Thee  for  life,  and  for  that  sacred 
thing,  a  man's  free  will.  We  thank  Thee  for  love, 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


which  is  the  breath  of  life,  and  for  the  symbol  of  love, 
our  human  homes  —  for  their  sanctity,  and  their 
delicate  ideals;  for  the  tenderness  of  women,  and  the 
honor  of  men,  and  the  memories  of  dead  children. 
We  bless  Thee  for  the  high  mystery  of  marriage, 
whose  sacred  fire  is  an  altar  fire,  and  must  be  fed  by 
sacrifice.  We  thank  Thee  for  the  chance  to  do  the 
hard,  right  thing." 

The  minister's  voice  faltered.  He  was  unaccount 
ably  moved.  His  prayer  came  to  an  abrupt  termina 
tion,  and  without  a  word  he  left  the  room.  His  lame 
wife  followed  him;  she  shut  the  study  door  and  flung 
herself  and  her  crutches  into  his  arms. 

"Abel,  I  told  her  everything  that  ever  happened 

—  almost.   I  feel  such  a  goneness  —  you  can't  know ! " 
"I  think  you  have  won,"  said  the  Reverend  Abel 

Titus,  wearily.  "But  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know! 
They  are  sore  bestead,  God  help  them!  " 

Murray  and  Allyria  were  alone  in  the  parsonage 
parlor.  Both  had  risen,  and  stood  facing  one  another. 
He  looked  very  tall  in  his  wet  coat.  Their  eyes  clung 
with  the  candor  of  an  immeasurable  misery.  Allyria 
seemed  to  herself  for  a  terrible  instant  to  be  groping 
on  a  foothold's  width  between  a  wall  and  an  abyss 

—  her  unhappy  marriage,  and  her  impending  desola 
tion.   Then  she  spoke:   "I  am  sorry  you  have  lost 
your  machine.   It  was  such  a  beauty! " 

316 


THE   SACRED   FIRE 


As  if  they  had  been  chatting  at  some  function,  and 
automobiles  were  the  uppermost  subject,  Cecil  Mur 
ray  bowed. 

"I  shall  go  on  to  Anna  Joselyn's,"  observed  Mrs. 
Grenfell.  "She  will  telephone  to  Janet.  Mr.  Titus 
will  drive  me  over  with  the  old  horse  that  is  afraid 
of  thunder." 

"Very  well,"  said  Murray. 

"And  you?"  cried  Allyria,  with  an  uncontrollable 
break  in  the  poise  of  her  voice  and  manner.  "What 
will  you  do?" 

"Whatever  you  command,"  replied  Murray, 
dully.  "There  are  late  trains.  I  can  send  Stokes 
for  the  machine;  he  can  take  the  remains  to 


morrow." 


"Very  well,"  said  Allyria,  in  her  turn.  "I  have 
been  thinking,"  she  added,  "that  I  may  try  California 
myself  before  the  winter  is  over." 

"To  join  Mr.  Grenfell?" 

"In  that  case,  I  should  join  Mr.  Grenfell.  I 
might  not  "  -  she  stopped,  and  began  again  -  "if  I 
should  start  suddenly  —  not  have  a  chance  to  say 
good -by-  '  She  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  might  hurt  it,"  he  argued,  "if  that  is  the  burned 
one."  He  did  not  take  it,  and  she  let  it  drop  with  a 
wounded  expression. 

"Is  there  any  harm  in  my  having  this?  "  he  asked 
with  his  melancholy  smile.  He  caught  the  vine  from 


THE   SACRED  FIRE 


her  wrist,  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  Then  he  unbuttoned 
his  coat,  and  put  the  bruised  tendrils  in  his  breast 
pocket. 

The  minister  brought  the  old  horse  to  the  door,  and 
Murray  helped  Mrs.  Grenfell  into  the  shabby  buggy. 
Mrs.  Titus  stood  leaning  on  her  crutches. 

"There! "  she  said,  "she  's  forgotten  that  beautiful 
veil." 

"If  you  will  entrust  it  to  me  " — began  Murray, 
eagerly.  "I  could  return  it  to  her." 

The  minister's  wife  hesitated  perceptibly. 

"Mr.  Titus  might  drive  me  over  with  it  in  the 
morning.  I  should  like  to  see  her  again  —  if  I  had  any 
reason  to." 

Murray  lifted  his  hat  without  remark,  and  strode 
away. 

Allyria  looked  through  the  back  of  the  buggy, 
where  the  curtain  was  rolled  up.  She  watched  him 
walking  heavily  down  the  dark,  wet  road.  Above  the 
tunnel  of  willows  the  clouds  stirred,  and  she  saw  the 
forehead  of  a  tragic  moon.  The  minister  did  not 
speak.  Allyria's  burned  hand  crept  to  her  pocket 
and  closed  upon  the  little  silver  key. 


CHRISTOPHORUS 

SOME  years  ago  there  appeared  in  a  considerable 
mountain  town  of  New  England  a  remarkable  man. 
Call  the  place  Hillcrest,  the  State  New  Hampshire, 
and  the  man  Herman  Strong.  To  the  still  living  is 
due  all  possible  consideration,  and,  whether  living  or 
dead,  the  identity  of  the  actors  in  this  story  will  not 
be  betrayed. 

He  was  a  clergyman  or  a  minister  —  his  parish 
ioners  never  felt  quite  sure  which.  He  was  first  ob 
served  among  the  summer  people,  as  a  boarder  in  an 
ancient  gray  house  set  closely  against  the  river,  and 
occupied  by  an  old  and  irritable  deaf  woman,  who, 
being  hopelessly  mortgaged,  patronized  a  few  lodgers, 
but  had  hitherto  drawn  the  line  of  fate  at  "mealers." 

This  elderly  person  —  her  name  was  Rock  —  suc 
cumbed  unexpectedly  to  the  personal  persuasions  of 
the  clerical  stranger,  and  accepted  him,  if  without 
cordiality,  at  least  without  protest,  as  a  member  of 
her  household.  A  home,  such  as  it  was,  she  sourly 
provided  for  him. 

There  was  a  vacancy  at  that  time  in  the  pulpit  of 
the  leading  church,  and  Herman  Strong  preached  now 
and  then,  as  a  matter  of  courtesy,  to  the  unshepherded 

319 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


flock.  An  astonished  and  increasing  audience  began 
to  follow  him.  It  was  a  Congregational  church  of  the 
elder  New  England  type,  and  it  developed  that  the 
preacher  was  not  to  the  denomination  born  or  bound. 
It  was  supposed  that  he  had  been  trained  to  the 
Episcopal  liturgy,  of  which  he  made  use  when  he 
chose,  and  it  was  suspected  that  he  had  cultivated 
a  certain  freedom  of  religious  thought  or  belief  such 
as  would  have  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  fetter  him 
self  to  any  one  of  the  stricter  sects.  He  frankly  told 
the  committee  as  much,  when  the  warming  interest 
of  the  people  developed  that  autumn  into  a  formal 
call. 

"Your  thoughts  are  not  my  thoughts,  nor  your 
ways  my  ways,"  he  said.  "But  your  Christ  is  my 
Christ.  I  will  consider  your  wishes,  and  deal  with 
you  again  about  this  matter.  If  you  would  like  a 
stated  interval  in  which  to  change  your  own  minds  — 
pray  feel  at  liberty  to  mention  one.  You  and  I  cannot 
work  together  with  reservations  on  either  side.  Our 
relation  must  be  that  of  a  great  attachment,  or  none 
at  all.  It  will  be  outside  the  ecclesiastical  convention 
alities,  any  how  you  look  at  it,"  observed  the  minister, 
dreamily. 

The  committee  stared. 

"Our  people  are  set  upon  you,"  said  the  chairman, 
slowly.  "And  it  appears  to  be  the  impression  in  this 
community  that  you  are  a  child  of  God.  We  ain't 

320 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


given  to  unmaking  our  minds  round  these  parts.  We 
don't  want  any  opportunity  for  reconsidering  our 
views.  We  want  you,  sir." 

"But  an  ordination  —  an  installation  —  the  usual 
ecclesiastical  ceremonies  —  these   are   impracticable 
under  your  polity  and  on  my  basis,"  argued  the 
minister.   "And  your  people  value  such  things - 
frankly  —  more  than  I  do." 

"  We  ain't  valuing  anything  just  about  now  more  'n 
we  value  you,  sir,"  persisted  the  chairman.  "There 's 
those  that  have  been  in  affliction.  And  there  ?s  those 
that  have  sat  under  your  preaching.  We  are  in 
structed,  sir,  not  to  take  no  for  an  answer  from  you, 
Mr.  Strong." 

"I  will  become  your  pastor  for  a  year,"  said  the 
young  clergyman,  suddenly.  "You  shall  not  ordain 
nor  install  me,  nor  play  the  heretic  for  my  sake.  I 
will  fill  your  pulpit,  since  you  wish  it,  and  I  will  com 
fort  your  afflicted  —  if  I  can." 

Thus  it  befell  that  Herman  Strong  became  in  this 
candid  and  unusual  manner  the  spiritual  leader  of  the 
Hillcrest  people  —  a  relation  which,  begun  without 
ecclesiastical  formality,  continued  from  ploughing  to 
harvest,  from  maple-leaf  to  maple-blossom  —  one 
might  say,  from  heart -beat  to  heart -beat ;  for  whether 
he  were  heretic  or  whether  he  were  "sound,"  the 
people  loved  the  man,  and  indeed,  as  time  revealed, 
he  grew  so  dear  to  them  that  had  he  been  a  Boston 

321 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


Unitarian  they  would  not  have  yielded  him  to  any 
council  —  and  more  cannot  be  said. 

From  old  photographs  in  parish  albums,  and  from 
still  vivid  traditions  cherished  in  Hillcrest  homes,  it  is 
to  be  gathered  that  Herman  Strong  was  possessed  of  a 
certain  memorable  personal  beauty.  He  was  not  mas 
sively  built,  but  tall ;  he  showed  the  physique  of  a  stu 
dent  who  had  dabbled  in  athletics  —  the  strong  head, 
the  long,  thin,  muscular  hands.  He  had  a  nervous 
gait,  a  manly  laugh,  and  supple  motions. 

His  coloring  was  dark,  but  not  swarthy;  his  fore 
head  balanced,  and  an  eye  as  direct  as  an  N  ray 
blazed  into  the  soul.  His  mouth,  which  was  delicate, 
though  full,  gave  the  impression  of  singular  moral 
purity;  it  held  a  cool  gravity,  while  melting  into  warm, 
sudden  smiles.  The  man  carried  in  feature  and  figure 
and  manner  the  unworldliness  possible  only  to  one 
who  has  known  the  world. 

If  he  had  known  the  world,  he  had  left  it;  and  if 
he  had  weighed  it,  he  had  not  overmeasured  it;  for 
he  sank  himself  in  the  plain  life  of  the  Hillcrest  par 
ish  like  a  diver  who  was  drowned  in  content.  He 
preached,  he  prayed,  he  visited,  he  rebuked,  he  con 
soled,  like  any  ordinary  country  pastor;  while  yet  it 
was  always  felt  that  he  did  none  of  these  things  in  the 
ordinary  ways.  Particularly  was  it  said  of  the  last  of 
them  that  he  exercised  the  consoling  function  of  the 
Protestant  priest  as  no  other  preacher  known  to  the 

322 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


town  or  to  the  hills  had  ever  done.  Old  persons  with 
old  familiar  griefs  so  heavy  that  their  bent  shoulders 
had  become  crooked  beneath  the  load,  and  straight 
young  people  with  new  griefs  that  they  had  not  had 
time  to  learn  how  to  bear,  stole  to  the  now  thronged 
church  to  hear  the  preacher  reaching  for  their  heart 
strings  that  he  might  untie  these  and  loose  the  burden, 
as  he  did  —  who  knew  how  he  did  it  ? 

Before  he  had  been  with  them  for  six  months,  the 
Hillcrest  parish  had  divined  a  beautiful  word  by 
which  to  name  him  among  themselves.  They  called 
him  —  half  timidly,  as  if  not  sure  whether  they  in 
fringed  upon  some  iron  doctrine  or  offended  some 
gentle  sanctity  —  they  called  him  the  comforter.  It 
used  to  seem  to  the  young  preacher  sometimes  that 
his  intellect,  his  education,  his  experience  of  life,  all 
had  gone  for  little,  except  to  train  his  heart.  The  fires 
of  this  were  strong,  and  everything  fed  them.  He  had 
the  greatest  gift  with  which  Heaven  can  endow  a  hu 
man  spirit  —  a  powerful  and  sensitive  sympathy  regu 
lated  by  good  sense.  He  perceived,  he  suffered,  the 
pangs  that  were  not  his  own  —  not  disdaining  false 
miseries  because  they  were  the  consequence  of  igno 
rance  or  vanity,  or  some  remediable  weakness,  but 
proving  himself  swift  as  a  cherishing  angel  to  recog 
nize  true  pain.  Hurt  souls  crawled  to  him  like 
wounded  dogs  to  a  master.  He  had  but  to  extend  a 
hand,  and  they  crept  to  his  feet. 

323 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


Perhaps  the  most  extraordinary  thing  about  the 
preacher  was,  that  while  the  sad  sought  him,  the  glad 
did  not  shun  him.  He  was  the  confidant  of  every  col 
lege  boy,  the  friend  of  clerks  and  apprentices,  the  ad 
viser  of  girls  whose  emotions  he  held  at  wing's  length 
from  his  personality.  In  truth,  it  was  said  of  him  that 
he  had  no  personal  relations  with  women.  Many 
doubted  if  he  had  ever  cultivated  such;  at  all  events  he 
found  neither  space  nor  inclination  for  them  at  this 
period  of  his  life;  and  his  influence  grew  accordingly. 

It  rapidly  became,  in  fact,  the  most  powerful  influ 
ence  ever  known  in  the  hill  country,  and  time  dimin 
ished  nothing  of  its  force.  Spiritual  energy  has  her 
experts,  as  well  as  matter,  and  perhaps,  like  science, 
tends  in  the  later  times  to  specialization.  Herman 
Strong  loved  boys  and  golf,  music  and  skates,  a  good 
clean  story  and  a  good  time.  But  he  loved  more  to 
ease  the  unhappy  if  he  might.  This  was  his  spiritual 
passion.  He  was  as  familiar  with  the  miseries  of  his 
people  as  the  doctor  was  with  their  tongues  and  pulses. 

He  had  pursued  for  some  time  —  I  think  it  was  for 
nearly  a  year  —  the  path  of  least  resistance  in  useful 
ness,  as  we  all  do ;  pouring  the  flame  of  his  fine  nature 
where  it  most  naturally  went,  and  offering  anywhere 
and  everywhere,  and  to  any  soul  that  claimed  it,  the 
white  fire  of  his  consolation  —  when  there  occurred 
an  incident  which  caused  him  deep  reflection,  and  to 
a  certain  extent  some  readjustment  of  his  noble  and 

324 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


tender  instincts.  At  all  events  it  guided  these  for  the 
first  time  in  a  direction  where  his  heart  had  not 
hitherto  traveled. 

The  gray  house  of  Mrs.  Rock,  as  we  said,  stood 
close  to  a  river;  so  close  that  it  scarcely  missed  of 
being  a  pier.  In  the  rectangle  formed  by  the  main 
house  and  the  ell  in  which  the  minister  had  his  study, 
a  neglected  garden  huddled  timidly  like  a  forsaken 
old  person.  Most  of  the  flowers  and  shrubs  had 
ceased  to  bloom;  the  place  crept  down  into  a  scanty 
slope  of  grass  and  flags  which  lapped  the  water  sadly. 
A  few  gray  planks,  once  a  boat -landing,  crumbled 
among  the  flags.  The  minister  had  put  a  boat  out  for 
his  own  unprofessional  recreation ;  but  he  found  small 
time  to  use  it.  He  was  sitting  at  his  study  window  one 
August  night,  at  the  full  of  the  moon.  It  was  a  Sunday 
night,  and  he  had  preached  twice,  and  was  tired.  The 
hour  was  late,  and  the  house  was  as  still  as  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  which  sentineled  the  river.  These  were 
chiefly  maple  or  birch,  and  cast  a  thick  shadow  like 
carved  bronze,  or  a  fine  one,  delicately  trembling. 

The  river  moved  stealthily,  flung  out  by  the  moon 
like  a  banner  that  had  been  dropped  from  some  height 
and  caught  between  the  two  dark  wooded  banks, 
where  it  lay  tangled  in  the  unrealities  of  leaves. 
In  a  fold  of  light  the  minister's  boat  swung  sleepily. 

The  flags  that  indicated  the  dip  of  meadow-land 
into  which  the  garden  suddenly  sank  had  a  sharp  look 

325 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


like  spears,  and  took  the  moonlight  on  their  points. 
The  old  landing,  whose  gray  surface  was  streaked 
here  and  there  by  the  yellow  of  a  fresh  pine  plank,  had 
the  observant  air  of  deserted  things;  as  if  it  awaited 
action  or  incident  of  which  it  was  defrauded. 

As  the  preacher  sat,  with  his  elbows  on  his  study 
window-sill,  watching  the  river,  he  was  made  sud 
denly  aware  that  he  was  not  alone  in  doing  so.  A 
figure,  darkly  draped,  rose  between  his  eyes  and  the 
water,  and  he  perceived  from  her  motions  —  for  it 
was  the  figure  of  a  woman  —  that  she  was  wading 
through  the  resistance  of  the  flags.  After  a  little  hesi 
tation,  in  which  he  could  suppose  that  she  paused  to 
glance  at  the  house,  or,  more  particularly,  at  the  wing, 
she  climbed  upon  the  landing  from  the  side,  and 
stood  revealed  and  distinct  in  the  unreal  light  —  a 
young  woman,  dressed  in  translucent  black,  through 
which  her  arms  and  neck  gleamed  faintly.  Her  hands, 
knotted  in  front  of  her,  began  to  swing  up  and  down 
with  the  preparatory  movements  of  a  diver.  Other 
wise  she  was  perfectly  still.  She  made  no  motion 
towards  the  boat  —  that  would  have  reassured  him  — 
but  disregarded  it. 

The  preacher  hesitated  no  longer,  but  quietly 
opened  the  outside  door  of  his  study,  and,  without 
sound,  crossed  the  ruined  garden  and  made  his  way 
towards  the  landing.  The  woman  had  not  heard  him, 
and  he  was  within  a  few  feet  of  her,  when  she  leaped. 

326 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


It  was  all  so  swiftly  done  that  it  took  away  the 
breath  of  his  brain.  He  was  a  quick-witted  man  in 
practical  emergencies,  more  so  than  men  of  thought 
are  apt  to  be,  but  the  adroitness  of  the  woman  had 
countermarched.  He  felt  that  he  was  beaten  in  his 
beneficent  tactics,  and  now  understood  that  the  ears 
of  the  suicide  —  finer  than  those  of  the  lovers  of  life  - 
had  betrayed  his  approach  to  her.  Thinking  to  save 
her,  he  had,  in  fact,  hurried  her  to  her  fate. 

Before  his  eyes  she  leaped  and  plunged.  Her  trans 
parent  sleeves  fell  to  her  shoulders  over  her  bare  arms 
as  she  flung  these  above  her  head.  A  darkened  but  a 
glowing  shape,  she  swept  his  vision  by  and  sank. 

The  preacher's  half-stunned  wits  had  returned  to 
intelligence  within  him  by  this,  and  he  sprang  into  the 
boat  and  got  the  oars. 

The  woman  had  not  reappeared.  He  drove  a  few 
iron  strokes  above  the  spot  where  she  had  sunk.  The 
river  had  never  looked  to  him  so  black,  it  had  never 
run  so  swiftly,  he  was  sure  that  it  had  never  been  so 
deep.  It  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  be  holding 
herself  under  water  deliberately,  as  some  wretched 
animals  have  been  known  to  do  when  weary  of  life. 
While  he  was  instinctively  peering  down  into  the 
river,  more  to  keep  his  own  hope  afloat  than  from  any 
real  expectation  that  he  could  grapple  the  sinking 
figure  with  his  eyes,  he  heard  a  slight  rippling  noise 
some  fifty  feet  away  from  him  down-stream.  As  he 

327 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


put  about,  rowing  mightily  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound,  the  simple  fact  first  presented  itself  to  him 
that  the  woman  had  been  carried  by  the  current  of 
the  mountain  stream  —  for  it  was  strong. 

"She  must  be  swirled  up,"  he  thought,  " whether 
she  wants  to  or  not." 

In  a  moment  he  had  swung  the  boat  down -stream. 
He  had  calculated  so  well  that  as  she  rose  she  struck 
the  planking.  His  arms  shot  down  as  hers  came  up. 
He  thanked  Heaven  for  every  brassy  and  driver  that 
he  had  ever  held,  for  every  bat  and  bridle,  each  rudder 
and  oar.  His  manly  muscle  served  him,  as  a  man's 
should,  and  he  gripped  the  woman  —  whether  she 
would  or  no  —  and  lifted  her  into  his  boat,  with  or 
without  her  leave,  and  saved  her  in  her  own  despite. 

She  was  by  now  well  spent,  and  nearly  if  not  quite 
unconscious.  His  arms  clung  to  her  with  the  fierce 
instincts  of  salvation,  which  are  mightier  than  those  of 
destruction ;  and  did  not  at  once  release  her  when  they 
had  laid  her  on  the  bottom  of  the  boat  at  his  feet. 
The  man's  pulse  of  him  knew  that  she  was  a  young 
woman,  and  formed  with  a  certain  sumptuous  deli 
cacy.  The  preacher's  conscience  of  him  perceived 
that  she  had,  to  all  intents,  sinned  a  great  sin,  and  he 
wondered  how  he  should  deal  with  her  when  she 
should  have  recovered  herself. 

She  did  not  immediately  do  so,  although  as  he  put 
the  boat  about  she  gasped  and  slightly  stirred.  No 

328 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


other  course  occurred  to  him,  and  he  rowed  rapidly 
back  to  his  own  landing.  He  had  recognized  her  by 
that  time  for  a  member  of  his  own  congregation,  a 
" summer  lady";  he  had  seen  her  sometimes  at  his 
church,  but  it  could  scarcely  be  said  that  he  had 
acquaintance  with  her.  In  his  efforts  to  arouse  her 
he  called  her  by  name :  — 

"Mrs.  Devon!   Mrs.  Devon!" 

The  boat,  swinging  at  its  painter,  drifted  into  a 
whirlpool  of  moonlight,  in  whose  eddies  she  showed 
so  white  and  still  that  the  preacher  felt  alarmed. 

"Mrs.  Devon!  Aldeth  Devon!"  he  called  her, 
with  the  tinge  of  authority  natural  to  his  profession. 
An  inarticulate  sound  replied  to  him.  She  struggled 
a  little  when  he  lifted  her,  and  her  hands  defied  him, 
but  he  made  mockery  of  their  protest,  and  took 
her  in  his  arms;  these,  for  a  man  of  his  build, 
were  powerful  enough,  and,  half  lifting,  half  dragging 
her,  he  got  her  upon  the  landing,  across  the  ruined 
garden,  and  to  his  study  door.  At  its  threshold  he 
felt  her  limp  body  stiffen  and  rebel,  and  saw  that  her 
half -drowned  eyes  were  wide  and  reproachful  of  him. 

"There  is  nothing  else  to  do,"  he  said.  "I  will  call 
Mrs.  Rock." 

Without  further  speech  he  laid  her  on  his  study 
sofa,  and  put  his  hand  upon  the  old-fashioned  bell- 
rope  —  it  was  a  crocheted  bell -rope  —  which  hung 
by  his  door. 

•    329 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


"She  can't  hear  it,"  came  unexpectedly  from  the 
sofa.  "She's  too  deaf." 

"I  can  go  and  call  her,"  urged  the  preacher,  stoutly. 

"I  tell  you  I  won't  have  her! "  cried  the  woman. 

"I  tell  you  you  must!  "  insisted  the  man. 

"Oh,  please  —  oh,  please!"  entreated  the  voice 
from  the  sofa.  "She  may  be  deaf,  but  she  is  n't  dumb. 
Think  of  the  talk  it  would  make." 

If  the  preacher's  lips  framed  the  quick  words, 
"Think  of  the  talk  this  would  make!"  they  did  not 
form  these,  but  pressed  together  hard  in  a  chivalrous 
silence.  He  stood  before  the  dripping  sofa,  where  the 
drenched  figure  of  his  guest,  struggling  to  her  feet, 
confronted  him.  He  could  hear  the  little  sop-sopping 
of  her  silk  stockings  against  her  soaked  slippers  as 
she  staggered  towards  the  garden  door.  Her  thin 
dress,  black  and  clinging,  wound  about  her.  Pools 
of  water  followed  her  movements;  she  stretched  her 
bare  arms,  groping  to  the  door-jamb;  her  drenched 
gauze  sleeves  were  twisted  above  her  elbows. 

"I  must  go  right  back,"  she  said  feebly,  "and  I 
must  go  alone." 

"I  don't  know  what  kind  of  man  you  take  me  to 
be ! "  exploded  the  minister,  "  but  if  you  suppose  I  shall 
allow  anything  of  the  kind  —  Here.  Do  as  I  bid  you. 
Swallow  this.  We  will  decide  what  you  shall  do 
afterwards." 

She  perceived  that  he  was  putting  brandy  to  her 
330 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


lips,  and  swallowed  it  obediently;  but  she  did  not 
recede  from  her  position  where  she  stood  dizzily 
swaying  on  the  threshold  of  his  door. 

"Now  I  am  perfectly  able,"  she  pleaded,  with  a 
pretty,  feminine  overemphasis.  "And  I  shall  go.  I 
will  not  have  Mrs.  Rock  called.  And  I  will  go." 

"Where  will  you  go?"  demanded  Mr.  Strong. 
"Back  to  the  river,  for  instance?" 

"Not  to-night.   No.   I  give  you  my  word  —  no." 

"Very  well,  then,"  replied  the  minister,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation.  "You  run  the  risk  of  pneu 
monia,  of  course." 

"It  is  a  hot  night,"  urged  the  shivering  woman. 
"And  I  am  very  well  —  terribly  strong.  I  can't  die  - 
of  anything.  That's  certain.  What  are  you  doing? 
Your  rain-coat  ?  But  it  will  get  so  wet !  Yes,  I  know. 
It  would  cover  me  —  and  nobody  at  the  Crowe's 
might  notice.  I  —  you  see.  Don't  you  see?" 

"I  see  that  you  must  be  got  to  your  boarding-house 
without  another  word,"  observed  the  minister,  whose 
quiet  peremptoriness  now  began  to  have  some  effect 
upon  her.  "Obey  me,  and  I  will  get  you  there  in  the 
quickest  and  the  least  noticeable  way  I  can  think  of. 
Trust  me  —  if  you  can." 

"I  will  try,"  replied  Mrs.  Devon,  tremulously.  He 
wrapped  his  long  water -proof  coat  about  her  soaked 
dress,  and  helped  her,  half  leaning,  half  refusing, 
across  the  garden  to  the  landing;  thence  without  a 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


word  into  the  boat.  Still  in  silence  he  took  the  oars 
and  rowed  her  rapidly  down-stream.  At  the  rear  of 
the  boarding-house  (known  to  the  summer  people  as 
Crowe's  Nest)  he  brought  the  boat  up  among  some 
muttering  flags  and  laid  down  his  oars. 

Then,  not  till  then,  he  regarded  her  with  a  stern 
solemnity.  She  had  now  quite  regained  herself,  and 
sat  erect  and  strong.  The  wind  had  risen,  and  moon 
light  shattered  by  shadows  broke  and  formed  upon 
her.  She  was  yet  very  pale.  But  her  eyes  had  a 
sardonic,  half -contemptuous  gleam,  as  if  she  recog 
nized  the  full  nature  of  her  position,  and  dared  him  — 
perhaps  dared  the  world  —  to  condemn  her  for  it. 

"She  is  perfectly  sane,"  he  thought. 

"I  suppose  I  am  expected  to  thank  you/'  she 
observed,  with  a  biting  intonation.  She  did  not  under 
score  her  words  any  more,  he  noticed. 

"But  you  do  not?"  he  asked,  kindly  enough. 

"No,  I  do  not  —  no.  By  this  time  I  should  have 
been  -  '  She  glanced  at  the  river. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  interrupted  the  preacher. 

"Why  does  anybody  do  it?  The  power  to  suffer 
is  greater  than  the  power  to  endure.  You  ought  to 
know  that.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  it.  You  were 
never  married,  were  you?" 

"Your  husband  is  dead  ?"  queried  Mr.  Strong,  with 
a  delicate  hesitation.  He  remembered  that  he  had 
never  seen  the  man  in  Hillcrest. 

332 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


"If  it  were  that ! "  exclaimed  the  wife.  She  turned 
without  a  word  of  gratitude  or  courtesy  and  left  him. 
He  watched  her  swaying  up  the  grass-grown  path  to 
the  boarding-house.  Little  as  he  knew  her,  he  felt 
that  it  was  like  her  to  choose  this  plain  place.  She 
would  abhor  the  hotel.  Midway  of  the  path  she 
paused  as  if  too  weak  to  proceed,  and  wavered  into 
an  old  arbor,  heavy  with  half -ripe  grapes  and  shrivel 
ing  leaves.  The  garden  was  deserted,  and  a  tangle 
of  tall  shrubbery  protected  the  arbor  from  the  house. 
The  preacher  took  a  few  steps  and  joined  her. 

"You  must  allow  me,"  he  began.  "Whatever  the 
consequences,  I  shall  not  leave  you  —  in  this  way." 

"You  will  leave  me  in  any  way  that  I  direct,"  re 
plied  the  lady,  coldly.  She  struggled  to  her  feet;  he 
bowed  and  turned,  but  retraced  a  step. 

"I  must  speak  with  you,"  he  said,  with  determina 
tion.  "And  I  shall  make  an  opportunity  of  doing  so 
as  soon  as  possible." 

Her  hands  made  a  forbidding  gesture,  but  her  lips 
said  nothing  audible.  As  he  walked  back  to  the  river 
he  heard  the  swashing  of  her  wet  slippers  against  her 
feet.  Presently  the  little  sopping  sound  ceased,  and 
he  knew  that  she  had  reached  the  shelter  of  the  house. 

Within  a  few  days  Herman  Strong  made  as  good  as 
his  word,  and  boldly  called  at  the  boarding-house 
and  requested  Mrs.  Devon. 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  sir,  maybe  you  '11  look  her  up  ?" 
333 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


said  Mrs.  Crowe,  hazily.  "  She's  never  any  where  in 
particular.  Unless  it 's  at  the  river.  She  's  terrible 
fond  of  the  river.  And  there 's  such  a  lot  of  cats  and 
hens  —  if  they  are  my  boarders  —  crochetin'  and 
clackin'  on  the  piazza,  sir." 

Grateful  for  this  zoological  hint,  the  preacher 
sought  the  garden,  and  in  the  grape  arbor  he  found 
her  sitting  idly,  with  listless  hands,  with  lustreless 
eyes,  out  of  which  even  the  sense  of  desolation  had 
ceased  to  look.  Seen  in  the  fire  of  an  August  noon, 
Mrs.  Devon  looked  younger  than  he  had  thought  her, 
and  more  attractive.  But  the  minister  did  not  con 
cern  himself  with  the  attractions  of  women.  He  dis 
regarded  her  pathetic  charm,  pausing  only  in  his 
own  mind  to  think  that  she  had  a  subtlety  of  organi 
zation  rarely  to  be  found  among  women  of  her  type, 
and  shot  his  errand  at  her  like  an  arrow  of  the 
Lord. 

"Why,"  he  demanded,  "did  you  try  to  kill  your 
self  ?"  " 

"How,"  she  retorted,  "am  I  to  get  your  rain-coat 
back  to  you?" 

The  preacher  set  his  lips  and  regarded  her  without 
the  tolerance  of  a  smile. 

"It 's  wet  yet,"  complained  Mrs.  Devon.  "I  have 
to  dry  it  an  inch  at  a  time,  when  Mrs.  Crowe  won't 
see.  The  whole  State  of  New  Hampshire  would  be 
gossiping  about  it.  I  have  concluded  to  send  it  to 

334 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


town  to  my  tailor's,  and  express  it  out  to  you  when 
I  've  got  home.     Will  that  do?" 

She  lifted  her  defiant  smile,  but  her  mouth  and  chin 
quivered  in  spite  of  herself. 

"You  are  pleased  to  mock  me/'  said  the  preacher, 
gravely.  "  And  yet  I  came  here  upon  a  serious  errand. 
I  came  to  save  you  —  if  I  could." 

"You  can't,"  replied  Aldeth  Devon,  with  convic 
tion. 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  sighed.  "But  I  wanted  to  try, 
that  's  all." 

"You  are  a  good  man,"  she  said,  with  a  certain 
contrition  of  manner.  "I  will  remember  what  you 
said  —  and  what  you  did." 

"I  have  done  no  more  than  any  decent  man  would 
do;  and  I  have  said  —  so  far  —  nothing  at  all,"  he 
urged  eagerly. 

"Say  it,  then,"  she  commanded,  half  petulantly,, 
"  Preach  me  my  personally  conducted  sermon.  I  will 
listen  —  yes,  I  will.  But  I  tell  you  beforehand  I 
think  I  had  the  right  to  do  it.  My  life  is  my  own." 

"Your  life  is  your  God's,"  he  answered  solemnly. 

"My  —  what?"  she  cried. 

"Nothing  that  you  suffer  —  nothing  that  you  can 
suffer  —  would  justify  you  in  hurling  your  soul  back 
at  your  Maker  before  He  calls  it,"  argued  the  minister, 
if  with  some  professional  commonplace,  at  least  with 
much  personal  gentleness. 

335 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


"What  do  you  know  about  suffering  ? "  she  taunted. 

"A  little,"  said  Herman  Strong.  "Not  much,  per 
haps,  by  your  standards.  At  least,"  he  added  man 
fully,  "I  know  right  from  wrong.  And  I  know  that 
the  deed  you  did  —  that  you  meant  to  do  —  why,  it  is 
a  deadly  sin !  I  was  sorry  to  see  you  commit  it.  You 
seemed  to  me  above  that  kind  of  weakness.  I  thought 
you  were  more  of  a  woman." 

She  set  her  beautiful  teeth.  "Have  you  anything 
more  to  say?"  came  from  them  in  bitten  breaths. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Except  to  ask  you,  if  you  are  ever  in  such  extrem 
ity  again  —  (I  realize  that  it  must  be  a  very  great  and 
cruel  one)  —  will  you  come  to  me  ?  Will  you  let  me 
try  to  help  you,  if  I  can?" 

She  hesitated  with  her  answer  —  would  she  yield  ? 
would  she  rebel  ?  —  and  before  her  lips  had  decided 
it  she  felt  that  he  had  removed  their  opportunity.  He 
had  lifted  his  hat  gravely,  and  passed  from  the  arbor 
where  the  shriveled  leaves  and  half-ripe  fruit  hung 
above  the  woman.  He  did  not  return  by  way  of  the 
too  feminine  piazzas  of  the  Crowe's  Nest,  but  took  the 
grass  path  to  the  river,  and  waded  home  laboriously 
through  the  reeds. 

A  smaller  incident  than  this  has  set  the  cast  of  many 
a  history,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  to  overestimate  the 
effect  upon  Herman  Strong  of  his  brief  experience 

336 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


with  the  woman  whom  he  had  saved.  She  passed  out 
of  his  life  as  quickly  and  quietly  as  she  had  crossed  it; 
and  that  without  a  sign  to  indicate  that  she  was  con 
scious  of  her  tremendous  indebtedness  to  him.  If  he 
ever  wondered  at  this,  it  was  with  that  meagre  atten 
tion  given  by  an  absorbed  and  overworked  man  to 
feminine  whims.  In  fact,  the  episode  in  which  Mrs. 
Devon  had  figured,  in  itself  so  intensified  his  pre 
occupation  with  a  class  of  deeds  and  motives  beyond 
reach  of  her  interest,  perhaps  even  of  her  respect, 
that  neither  his  thought  nor  his  feeling  had  room  to 
speculate  upon  any  vagaries  of  hers.  But  their  con 
sequences  remained  within  him. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  winter  her  personality 
was  forcibly  recalled  to  his  attention  by  an  item  in  the 
daily  press,  setting  forth  the  fact  that  one  Jasper 
Devon,  club-man  and  sporting-man,  had  been  hurled 
by  his  touring-car  (it  was  sixty  miles  an  hour,  at  mid 
night,  and  on  a  strange  road)  down  a  twenty-foot 
embankment.  The  car  turned  turtle,  the  chauffeur 
crawled  out  with  a  broken  leg,  but  Devon  did  not 
crawl  out  at  all.  The  machine  took  fire. 

It  occurred  to  the  minister  to  write  to  Mrs.  Devon 
in  the  face  of  this  dreadful  event,  but  on  careful 
thought  he  refrained  from  doing  so.  What  could  he 
say?  He  perceived  that  he  and  she  had  met  for  one 
great  moment,  like  submarine  navigators,  too  deep 
down  the  sea  of  truth  to  assume  an  unreal  attitude. 

337 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


He  could  not  play  with  the  foam  of  things,  and  insult 
by  conventional  condolence  the  terrible  facts  —  either 
those  known  or  those  unknown  to  him  —  of  her  life. 
He  passed  her  tragic  experience  by,  as  she  had  passed 
his  rescue  of  her,  in  that  strong  silence  which  may 
build  or  shatter  comprehension  between  two  persons 
whom  fate  has  brought  together  only  to  drive  apart. 
To  most  of  us  this  kind  of  massive  muteness  is  a  wall 
which  the  soul  never  climbs. 

But  the  preacher,  whose  high  nature  received  more 
powerful  impressions  from  the  contact  of  spirit  with 
spirit  than  from  the  impact  of  event  upon  event,  took 
to  heart  the  moral  impulse  that  he  had  gained  (admit 
ting  that  he  had  gained  it)  from  Aldeth  Devon.  He 
had  never  before  dealt  with  the  suicidal  temptation  in 
any  of  its  genuine  forms;  having  scarcely  gone  beyond 
the  knowledge  of  that  coquetry  with  death  by  which 
the  young  and  the  lightly  stricken  sometimes  divert 
themselves.  He  now  set  himself  seriously,  as  a  scholar 
does  who  selects  a  new  language,  to  understand  this 
mystery  of  despair  —  the  deepest,  the  darkest  of  them 
all.  Hitherto  he  had  been  impatient  with  it,  as  we  are 
apt  to  be  with  the  moral  danger  most  removed  from 
our  own  temperaments.  He  was  so  healthy,  so  happy, 
so  busy,  so  dedicated,  he  was  so  utterly  in  earnest  at 
living,  that  he  had  found  it  hard  to  tolerate  the  fraud 
ulent  emotion  which  plays  with  the  supreme  reality  of 
death. 

338 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


But  she  —  she  had  solemnly  hurled  herself  from 
the  air-ship  of  life  into  unappeasable  space;  and  he  - 
a  dangling  rope  in  the  blind  abyss  —  only  he  had  in 
terposed.  Now  the  ether  began  to  seem  to  him  peo 
pled  with  poor  souls  that  he  had  never  understood  how 
to  treat  —  souls  clinging  to  strands,  and  swaying 
above  destruction  for  lack  of  a  human  hand  —  the 
falling  aviators  of  the  moral  world.  His  exquisite 
sympathy,  now  fastened  upon  these,  clutched  them 
with  a  grip  of  iron  and  fire.  Their  weakness  and 
piteousness  —  everything  about  them  weak  but  their 
peril  —  began  to  appeal  to  him  more  than  almost  any 
other  kind  of  helplessness  that  he  had  wished  to  sus 
tain.  He  thought,  in  a  word,  profoundly,  at  times  dis 
proportionately,  about  the  thing.  It  had  changed  for 
him  from  melodrama  to  tragedy. 

Whether  this  psychic  condition  attracted  them  to 
himself,  or  whether  such  spiritual  emergencies  had,  in 
fact,  multiplied  within  his  reach,  it  became  certain 
that  he  had  never  before  met  with  anything  like  the 
number  of  the  life-weary  that  now  craved  his  stronger 
and  healthier  nature.  They  came  to  his  knowledge 
from  the  most  unexpected  quarters,  and  flung  them 
selves  upon  his  sensitiveness  from  the  most  unsus 
pected  causes.  He  gathered  them  all  to  his  heart,  the 
real  and  the  unreal,  the  grave  and  the  light.  He 
learned  when  to  console  the  victims  of  a  severe  and 
manifest  fate,  and  how  to  startle  the  self-tormented 

339 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


into  shame  or  noble  fear.  In  his  own  purpose  he  ante 
dated  by  several  years  the  departure  of  the  Salvation 
Army  that  deals  with  those  to  whom  life  has  become 
intolerable.  More  often  than  one  would  have  believed 
possible,  he  was  sought  by  men  whom  the  world  had 
tempted  into  dishonor  that  no  one  knew.  Women 
sobbed  their  danger  into  his  ears  —  young,  deserted 
girls,  and  middle-aged,  neglected  wives  who  were 
ready  to  drop  life  down  as  a  weight  too  cruel  to  be 
lifted;  the  incurable  sick,  and  the  tortured  for  sleep; 
the  overborne  of  this  misery,  the  under-strong  for  that ; 
people  who  had  never  before  let  their  dark  secret  es 
cape  their  lips  —  these  confessed  it  to  him,  or  he  sur 
prised  it  in  them  —  who  could  say  which  ?  —  and  he 
moved  before  them  as  Jehovah  did  before  the  Israel 
ites  in  the  Bible  story  —  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  a 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day:  always  visible,  and  always  lead 
ing.  The  beautiful  name  that  his  people  had  given 
him  was  never  so  often  upon  their  lips  as  at  this  time : 
"The  comforter  has  gone  to  her."  —  "He  has  asked 
for  the  comforter."  —  "Go  tell  it  to  the  comforter." 
Now  the  curious  thing  about  this  was  that  the 
loving  title  began  to  disturb  the  minister  a  little,  as  if 
it  had  been  a  small  thorn  from  the  rose  of  his  ideal  of 
himself.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  comforted  too 
much?  Too  easily  or  too  indiscriminately?  Had  he 
stimulated  his  people  too  little  ?  Had  he  indulged  the 
sense  of  sorrow  at  the  expense  of  the  consciousness  of 

340 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


sin  ?  This  way  of  phrasing  the  idea  was  a  clergyman's 
way;  he  did  not  always  escape  the  terminology  of  his 
calling;  but  in  this  as  in  other  instances  there  was 
something  in  the  phrase  broader  and  more  human 
than  pulpit  or  parish  understands. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  have  chanced  upon 
a  matter  of  some  vitality  to  a  spiritual  teacher,  and  he 
put  it  aside  —  for  he  was  too  busy  a  man  to  answer 
his  own  questions  as  he  went  along  —  until  he  should 
find  leisure  to  think  of  it  further.  Meanwhile  he  had 
his  people;  and  they,  thanking  God,  had  him.  They 
found  no  adequate  expression  of  the  feeling  that  he 
aroused  in  them  at  this  time,  and  used  to  sit  before 
him  in  a  kind  of  dumb  adoration  more  flattering  than 
speech  or  language. 

But  Herman  Strong  could  not  be  flattered.  This 
was  perhaps  his  greatest  peculiarity.  He  went  about 
his  Master's  business  too  eagerly  for  personal  vanity. 
He  preached,  he  prayed,  he  loved,  he  lifted,  like  a  man 
whose  time  was  too  short  to  lose  a  chance  at  a  human 
soul.  His  church  was  thronged  to  the  vestibules. 
Young  men  crowded  the  aisles  and  defied  the  fire  laws. 
He  had  never  preached  in  his  life  as  he  did  then.  This 
he  did  extemporaneously,  and  most  of  his  remarkable 
pulpit  work  is  lost  to  the  treasury  of  the  church.  Cer 
tain  of  his  people  cherished  fragments  of  it  in  note 
books,  and  from  glimpses  of  these  cne  may  know  how 
extraordinary  he  was.  The  whole  hill  country  hon- 

34i 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


ored  the  man.  He  moved  before  them  with  a  spiritual 
splendor  which  they  had  never  seen.  They  had  read 
now  and  then  of  such  a  preacher;  but  outside  the 
biographies,  who  looks  to  find  a  soul  so  choice  ? 

He  who  was  the  object  of  this  parish  worship  waved 
it  aside  indifferently,  and  rose  into  the  ether  of  his  own 
consecration,  as  the  consecrated  do  —  himself  the  last 
to  be  concerned  about  himself.  His  passion  for  the 
salvation  or  the  consolation  of  other  souls  had  well- 
nigh  made  him  forget  that  he  had  one  of  his  own.  An 
aged  man  of  the  people,  who  had  outlived  many  Hill- 
crest  pastorates,  said  to  his  wife :  — 

"Parson  's  a  balloon  on  fire.  He  's  got  to  come 
down  or  blaze  to  cinders." 

"  Soda  biscuit,"  said  the  elderly  wife.  "  And  canned 
soup.  That  's  the  matter  of  parson.  He  's  put  up  at 
Mis'  Rock's  too  continual.  Her  cookin  's  chicken- 
feed.  I  used  to  send  him  jells  and  meat  pies.  But  he 
said  it  hurt  her  feelin's." 

Who  shall  say  how  it  was,  or  why,  or  when,  that  the 
subtle  change,  imperceptible  to  any  but  himself,  over 
took  the  preacher  ?  At  first  he  thought  it  was  wholly 
a  physical  one :  he  perceived  that  he  was  tired ;  that  he 
needed  rest;  that  it  was  distasteful  to  him  to  seek  it 
and  impossible  to  obtain  it.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
his  boarding-house  was  dismal ;  that  his  landlady  was 
deaf  and  deafer;  that  the  table  was  poor  and  poorer. 

342 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


"Mrs.  Rock,"  he  said  one  day,  with  the  pathetic 
patience  of  an  ill-nourished  but  considerate  man, 
"is  n't  there  any  other  way  of  cooking  potatoes  but 
to  boil  them?" 

He  began  to  push  away  his  canned  soups  and  ignore 
his  soda  biscuits.  He  took  a  book  to  the  dining-room, 
and  another  to  bed.  He  read  much  and  feverishly  - 
often  half  the  night,  for  he  found  that  he  did  not  sleep 
as  he  used  to  do  —  but  he  forgot  what  he  had  read  and 
sat  musing.  He  brooded  a  good  deal  over  his  parish 
ioners  —  their  sorrows  and  their  errors,  their  failure 
to  do  or  to  be  the  thing  that  he  had  hoped  they  would. 
Drinking  boys  who  had  broken  their  pledges;  giddy 
girls  who  had  drifted  back  to  the  city;  surly  men  who, 
after  forced  attacks  of  good  nature,  had  relapsed 
into  household  tyrants  —  these  moral  cripples  fell  be 
fore  him  like  his  own  shadow  when  he  walked  away 
from  the  sun:  he  could  not  escape  the  presence  of 
them. 

It  began,  indeed,  to  seem  to  him  that  he  himself 
was  the  cripple,  that  the  faults  of  his  people  must  be 
his  own.  He  began  for  the  first  time  for  many  busy, 
happy  years  to  think  of  himself.  That  he  thought  of 
himself  to  reproach  himself  did  not  help  the  matter 
very  much.  His  joyous  nature  had  declined  into  a  cer 
tain  sadness  so  foreign  to  him  that  he  hardly  knew  it 
to  be  sadness,  and  called  it  by  other  names  —  dyspep 
sia,  nervousness,  brain-fag,  or  what  not.  He  drove 

343 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


himself  mightily,  as  sacrificial  souls  do,  flogging  his 
spirits  and  taking  the  bit  of  energy  between  his  teeth, 
plunging  into  every  generous  deed  that  he  could  think 
of,  doing  the  hardest  things  that  he  could  find  to  do. 
He  was  startled  to  find  that  no  invention  of  the  con 
science  helped  him  any. 

He  had  reached,  but  he  did  not  know  that  he  had 
reached,  the  subtlest  peril  that  can  beset  the  dedicated 

—  the  impulse  to  doubt  the  value  of  their  own  or  in 
deed  of  any  consecration.   The  great  reaction  of  spir 
itual  overstrain  had  come  upon  the  man  —  the  finest, 
one  might  say  the  shrewdest,  of  moral  emergencies. 
He  began  to  consider  the  ingratitude,  the  un worthi 
ness,  of  many  persons  for  whom  he  had  lighted  the 
altar  of  his  life.   He  began  to  ask  the  most  dangerous 
question  that  any  religious  teacher  can  ask  himself  — 
"Is  it  all  worth  while?"   He  felt  himself  bowed  be 
neath  the  ache  and  the  evil  of  the  souls  that  he  had 
lifted.   He  waded  like  Christophorus  into  the  river  of 
confusion,  carrying  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the  earth 

—  bent  under  the  load  that  belongs  only  to  the  Saviour 
of  the  world. 

Now  that  which  disturbed  him  most  was  that  which 
he  had  borne  most  tenderly  and  frequently  —  the 
dead  weight  of  those  who  were  weary  of  life.  These 
tragic  histories  haunted  his  heart  and  taunted  his 
imagination.  He  wished  he  had  known  less  about 
them.  He  wished  he  did  not  understand  their  plight 

344 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


so  well.  He  began  to  dread  his  simple  and  holy  memo 
ries.  He  had  in  his  library  a  French  book  called  La 
Contagion  sacree.  The  phrase  recurred  to  him  with  a 
sinister  change  in  the  adjective.  Was  the  contagion 
damnee  upon  him  ?  Had  he  been  infected  by  the  souls 
that  he  had  saved?  As  a  physician  may  be  by  the 
taint  of  a  patient  ?  As  an  alienist  sometimes  is  by  the 
mental  atmosphere  of  an  asylum? 

That  summer  was  a  hot  and  hard  one,  and  he 
worked  through  it  without  respite  —  fiercely,  one 
might  have  said;  as  if  he  dared  not  fall  below 
the  highest  flights  of  self -obliteration.  His  church 
brimmed  over.  The  summer  people  and  the  winter 
people  united  in  their  tender  idealization  of  the  man. 
He  walked  in  a  mist  of  love  and  loyalty. 

One  Sunday  he  preached  a  sermon  which  is  well 
remembered  in  Hillcrest  to  this  day.  He  chose  a  sim 
ple  enough  topic,  one  that  any  of  a  hundred  ministers 
might  have  selected  at  that  very  hour  —  the  beauty 
and  glory  of  life.  These  optimistic  subjects  are  com 
mon  in  our  pulpits;  but,  while  Herman  Strong  spoke, 
it  seemed  to  his  audience  that  he  spoke  in  unknown 
tongues,  which  suddenly  as  they  listened  became 
translated  for  them,  but  only  in  part ;  as  if  the  preacher 
used  spiritual  idioms  that  they  had  never  learned.  He 
knew  quite  well  that  he  should  not  be  altogether  un 
derstood,  only  affectionately  followed;  so  he  felt  safe, 
and  rashly  poured  out  his  soul  before  his  people.  As 

345 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


it  has  been  said  that  a  poet  sometimes  reveals  in  a 
lyric  to  the  whole  world  the  secret  of  his  heart  which 
he  would  refuse  to  his  dearest  friend,  so  the  preacher, 
overworn  with  that  solitude  of  the  strong  which  the 
weak  cannot  companion,  flung  from  his  pulpit  the 
secret  of  his  innermost,  his  deadliest  temptation. 

Out  of  his  entire  audience  only  one  person  inter 
preted  him.  He  perceived  in  due  time  that  one  did. 
She  was  a  stranger,  a  lady,  darkly  dressed,  and  veiled. 
At  first  she  had  reminded  him  indefinitely  of  the 
woman  whom  he  saved  from  the  river.  But  Mrs. 
Devon  had  never  returned  to  Hillcrest  since  the  vio 
lent  death  of  her  husband,  two  years  before.  He  had 
been  told  that  she  was  abroad  —  in  Venice,  Florence, 
Paris,  or  wherever  —  and  likely  to  remain  there,  and, 
in  fact,  he  found  difficulty  in  believing  that  it  was  she 
who  sat  before  him,  "stone-silent  and  stone-still." 
But  when  at  last  she  raised  the  strip  of  black  chiffon 
which  concealed  her  face,  he  felt  that  he  was  de 
tected  by  her  eyes.  These  had  a  solemn  energy  — 
half  compassion,  half  rebuke  —  which  seemed  to 
grasp  him.  He  returned  her  look  sturdily.  But 
he  knew  that  his  secret  was  his  own  no  longer. 

He  spoke  on,  quietly  enough:  — 

"Most  of  us  have  found  it  possible  in  sleep  to 
redream  favorite  dreams  from  which  we  had  awak 
ened.  Are  you  disillusioned  of  life?  Regain  the 
dream !  —  All  of  us  know  how  often  a  man's  existence 

346 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


depends  upon  his  power  to  grip  a  chance  at  the 
moment  when  it  is  thrown  to  him.  Is  the  rope  of 
courage  sliding  between  your  trembling  fingers? 
Hold  to  it !  Do  not  look  down ;  that  will  bring  a  mortal 
giddiness.  Look  up,  and  hold!  There  is  no  moral 
peril  too  acute,  there  is  none  too  imminent  to  be 
escaped.  —  You  know  how  it  is  when  we  have  a  great 
love  and  lose  it;  we  begin  to  understand  what  it  was 
worth  to  us  —  we  never  did  before.  So  it  is  with  the 
splendid  treasure  which  we  call  life  —  hard,  familiar, 
common  life.  If  a  man  in  a  moment  of  distaste  and 
weariness  should  hurl  it  away  —  what  would  he  offer, 
what  would  he  endure,  to  recall  the  scorned  and 
precious  thing?" 

The  preacher's  voice  sank  suddenly  into  low, 
impassioned  prayer. 

"Lord,"  he  said,  " teach  us  how  great  life  is;  how 
dear  it  ought  to  be.  Hold  us  —  we  are  not  always 
strong.  Comfort  us  —  we  sometimes  sorely  need  it." 

His  faltering  accents  fell.  He  heard  the  sobbing  of 
some  women  in  the  church,  and  saw  the  faces  of  men, 
confused  and  dull,  staring  at  him.  He  finished  the 
service  with  composure  and  left  the  pulpit.  He  felt 
the  gaze  of  Mrs.  Devon  upon  him,  trembling  but 
determined,  like  the  movements  of  search-light  upon 
water.  But  he  did  not  look  at  her,  and  disappeared 
within  the  pastor's  room. 

The  people  watched  him  stupidly.  Something  in 

347 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


his  appearance  perplexed  them;  as  a  canto  of  Dante's 
would,  or  a  stanza  from  Omar  Khayya*m. 

"Pastor's  off  his  feed,"  said  the  old  wife  who  sent 
him  "jells"  and  meat  pies.  But  the  aged  parishioner, 
her  husband,  shook  his  head. 

"JT ain't  alwers  what  a  man's  et"  he  answered 
slowly.  "Pastor  he  ain't  happy  —  see?" 

It  was  an  August  night,  and  sultry  as  a  dying  world. 
Forest  fires  in  the  hills  had  choked  the  lungs  of  the 
air  to  paralysis.  There  was  no  moon,  and  the  river 
ran  like  one  of  those  pit-black  streams  on  whose  banks 
we  struggle  in  our  troubled  sleep.  The  scanty  flowers 
in  the  old  garden  were  brown  with  drought.  The 
boat  at  the  landing  lapped  the  water  so  lightly  that 
one  could  scarcely  hear  it  by  listening.  Mrs.  Rock 
had  cleared  away  her  Sunday  supper  (always  the 
worst  of  the  week),  and  gone  long  since  to  bed.  The 
minister's  study  was  as  still  as  the  tropics  before  a 
hurricane.  Herman  Strong  sat  before  his  desk  with 
his  eyes  fixed  straight  before  him.  These,  for  want 
of  anything  more  inspiring  to  look  at,  were  fastened 
upon  the  old  crocheted  bell-rope.  The  bell-rope  was 
worked  in  wheels  of  red  and  blue;  he  followed  the 
pattern  idly  —  from  blue  to  red,  from  red  to  blue. 

He  felt  it  to  be  important  that  he  should  fix  his 
attention  on  something  definite.  When  he  had  ob 
served  the  bell-rope  as  long  as  he  could,  he  got 
up  with  a  quick,  determined  motion  and  went  out. 

348 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


When  he  had  crossed  the  garden  he  returned  and 
took  a  small  Testament  from  his  desk,  and  put  it  in 
his  vest  pocket  over  his  heart.  As  he  did  this  he 
stroked  the  Testament  caressingly.  But  he  went 
immediately  back  again  across  the  garden  and  down 
to  the  landing.  The  smoke  from  the  forests  stifled 
him.  High  on  the  hills  he  could  see  a  sword  of  flame. 

On  the  brink  of  the  water  he  paused,  and  stood  for 
some  time.  The  clock  of  his  church  struck,  and  he 
counted  the  call  of  midnight.  He  fixed  his  mind  upon 
the  voice  of  his  clock  as  he  had  done  upon  the  cro 
cheted  pattern  of  the  bell-rope.  When  the  last  stroke 
ceased  he  felt  unprotected.  His  fingers  wandered  to 
the  Testament  above  his  heart,  but  slid  away  from 
it.  He  pulled  upon  the  painter,  and  the  boat  leaped 
towards  him;  half-way  it  stuck,  for  some  reason,  and 
refused.  He  persisted,  and  the  boat  —  regretfully,  it 
seemed  —  obeyed.  He  stooped  and  urged  the  rope. 

Did  it  rebel  or  yield  ?  Did  he  slip  or  not  ?  Was  it 
merciful  accident  or  piteous  intent?  No  one  knows, 
or  will  know,  and  the  only  person  who  might  have 
asked  has  scorned  to  do  so.  As  he  tottered,  he  felt 
himself  grasped.  Two  arms  clasped  him,  and  with  a 
strength  which  seemed  to  him  more  than  man's  —  as 
assuredly  it  was  more  than  woman's  —  sustained  him. 
Soft  lips  sought  his  ear,  and  a  low  cry  thrilled  his 
being:  — 

"You  shall  live!  I  say,  you  shall  livel" 

349 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


Upon  the  landing,  yielding,  confused,  he  found 
himself  staggering.  The  woman's  arms  did  not 
release  him.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  essence  of 
human  need  and  succor  were  in  her  clasp.  It  was 
as  if  all  weakness  that  he  had  ever  lifted,  all  misery 
that  he  had  consoled,  all  error  that  he  had  prevented 
in  his  whole  patient,  compassionate  life,  had  returned 
to  him  and  clung  to  him  to  clutch  him  from  despair. 
Aldeth  Devon's  arms  were  the  arms  of  the  suffering, 
erring  world  which  had  always  been  the  nobler  for  his 
being  in  it  —  until  now.  Ah,  God,  until  now! 

His  head  dropped  upon  his  breast.  His  wet  hand, 
shaking,  sought  his  little  Testament,  and  reverently 
put  it  to  his  lips.  By  this  he  had  sunk  to  his  knees 
upon  the  landing,  but  the  woman  had  not  let  him  go. 
As  he  knelt,  she  knelt.  Then  he  perceived  that  she 
was  sobbing  on  his  heart. 

A  moment  gone,  and  she  was  impersonal,  salvatory, 
influence  or  angel  —  something  half  celestial.  Now — 
what  was  she  now?  All  woman  and  all  love. 

The  delicacy  of  her  beautiful  body,  impassioned  as 
no  ruder  organization  could  be,  shrank  from  the 
revelation  which  her  natural  and  noble  impulse  had 
opened,  like  the  windows  of  heaven,  before  the 
devotee.  In  the  darkness  the  crimson  drove  across 
her  averted  face,  and  she  made  as  if  she  would  have 
freed  herself  from  the  crisis  which  she  had  brought 
upon  them  both. 

350 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


But  now  his  were  the  arms  to  clasp,  and  his  the 
voice  to  cry  with  the  astonishment  of  ecstasy:  — 

"Why,  I  love  you!  I  love  you!  —  I  believe  I 
always  have." 

They  had  risen  to  their  feet  and  stood  solemnly 
enclasped,  heart  to  heart,  breath  to  breath.  But,  with 
the  simplicity  of  a  devout  boy,  the  lover  said,  - 

"Before  I  kiss  you  —  let  me  pray."  She  heard 
him  whisper,  "God  forgive  me!  God  forgive  me!" 
twice.  Then  she  lifted  her  lips. 

Thus  he  loved,  and  hence  he  lived.  No  lesser  man 
can  know  how  it  fares  with  one  of  the  sons  of  God 
when  he  enters  the  kingdom  of  human  joy.  For  that 
is  larger  than  the  province  of  pain.  But  the  citizens 
thereof  are  of  another  race,  and  their  spiritual  teachers 
wear  the  order  of  a  differing  mystery.  The  preacher 
looked  far  down  the  vistas  of  a  blinding  happiness, 
and  said  to  his  forecasting  soul:- 

"Will  they  lose  their  comforter?" 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  fire  to  consume  that  on  which 
it  feeds,  and  it  is  the  essence  of  ignorance  that  we  do 
not  know  when  we  are  ignorant.  To  this  day  the 
Hillcrest  people  wonder  why  the  minister  left  them, 
or  how  they  ever  could  have  let  him  go.  The  old 
parishioner  with  the  wife  who  made  "jells"  said:- 

" Pastor 's  too  happy  —  see?" 

Joy,  like  death,  is  a  river  wide  and  deep,  and  can 


CHRISTOPHORUS 


sunder  hearts  as  truly  as  that  other.  From  whatever 
cause,  this,  at  least,  occurred:  The  man  came  to 
feel  that  his  own  received  him  not,  or  that  he  could 
not  claim  them  as  he  used  to  do ;  as  if  he  had  grown 
dull  in  the  beautiful  art  of  soul  attraction;  and  with 
characteristic  humility  he  believed  that  he  had  de 
served  this  consequence  —  God  and  the  river  and 
one  woman  knowing  why;  that  he  was  not  worthy 
to  be  understood  by  those  on  whom  he  had  lavished 
the  young,  the  sensitive  years  of  his  life.  Half  in 
repentance,  half  in  resolve,  he  sought  the  hardest 
post  that  he  could  fill  among  the  outcasts  of  a  great 
town,  and  Aldeth  his  wife  followed  him,  wondering 
a  little  in  her  turn,  but  content  not  to  understand 
so  long  as  she  may  love  him.  For  she  has  learned 
already  that  he  who  has  consoled  so  many  comfort 
less,  himself  needs  cherishing  more  than  other  men. 


THE  CHIEF  OPERATOR 

EXCEPT  for  the  noise  of  the  storm  the  exchange  was 
noticeably  quiet.  For  an  hour  calls  had  been  few; 
when  they  came  they  tangled  and  overlapped  as  if 
from  some  general  cause  affecting  particular  cases. 
Men  were  occupied  with  facing  the  weather,  or  hur 
rying  home  from  it.  Many  mothers  had  gone  out  with 
umbrellas  and  little  coats  to  bring  children  back  from 
school.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  demands  upon  the 
wire,  which  for  a  small  country  exchange  was  rather  a 
busy  one.  Now  and  then  a  drop  fell,  or  a  young  voice 
called,  "  Number  ?"  and  between  whiles  the  girls  chat 
tered  disjointedly  as  girls  do  when  they  have  half  a 
chance;  or  looked  dismally  out  upon  the  rain  from  the 
drowning  windows.  There  were  two  girls,  known  as 
Molly  and  Mary,  and  the  chief  operator,  held  in  re 
spect  by  them  not  only  for  a  certain  power  to  enforce 
official  authority,  but  because  she  was  a  married 
woman;  and  Molly  and  Mary  were  at  the  age  when 
this  circumstance  appeared  of  more  importance  than 
it  ever  does  before  or  after.  The  effect  was  depleted  a 
little  by  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Raven  was  a  widow;  but 
she  was  quite  a  young  widow,  and  still  attractive  - 
who  could  have  said  why  ?  Of  beauty  she  had  little  or 

353 


THE  CHIEF  OPERATOR 


none;  but  the  eye  remained  upon  and  returned  to  her. 
The  girls  thought  it  was  an  "air"  she  had,  the  fit  of  a 
shirt-waist,  the  hang  of  a  skirt,  the  way  of  braiding  her 
bright  hair  below  the  head-receiver.  An  older  or  finer 
observer  would  have  said,  "It  is  her  expression." 

This  was  self-possessed,  but  gentle;  the  old-fash 
ioned  word  modest  might  have  said  it  better  than  any 
of  the  newer  feminine  adjectives.  There  was  a  firm 
curve  to  her  full,  irregular  lip  which  every  operator 
knew  and  regarded,  but  her  clear  eyes,  wide  and 
warm,  found  it  more  natural  to  plead  than  to  com 
mand.  Her  features,  her  gestures,  her  voice,  appealed. 
She  was  without  self-assertion.  This,  one  would  soon 
have  determined,  was  not  from  deficiency  in  force,  but 
from  the  acquisition  of  a  quality  which  is  the  essence 
of  force,  although  it  may  seem  at  first  to  be  antagonis 
tic  to  it.  In  some  way,  in  some  form,  life  had  taught 
her  to  disregard  herself.  Even  the  girls  perceived  that 
their  young  chief  was  not  uppermost  in  her  own 
thoughts.  They  supposed  it  was  because  she  was  a 
widow. 

It  had  rained  continuously  for  three  days  and 
nights,  and  the  river  was  swollen  and  perturbed.  It 
was  not  a  very  broad  river  in  its  normal  condition,  but 
a  deep  one,  and  swung  upon  a  powerful  current.  Now 
it  had  risen,  and  looked  unnaturally  large;  the  banks, 
at  that  point,  were  low,  and  the  exchange  stood  within 

354 


THE   CHIEF  OPERATOR 


a  hundred  feet  of  the  water.  This  gave  a  cool,  agree 
able  outlook,  which  the  chief  operator  liked  in  sum 
mer,  and  at  which  she  glanced  gratefully  whenever 
she  could.  It  was  August  —  the  scorching  August  of 
1908.  She  sat  at  her  desk  apart  from  her  staff  of  two, 
beside  the  large,  low  window.  The  exchange  stood 
by  itself  —  a  wooden  building  well  put  together; 
there  was  a  small  grocery-store  upon  the  first  floor; 
the  telephone  occupied  the  second  story;  the  grocer 
was  an  old  man,  and  sometimes  walked  a  part  of  the 
way  to  protect  Mrs.  Raven  when  she  went  home  to  her 
stepmother's  house,  two  miles  down  the  desolate  river 
side,  at  half -past  nine  at  night;  after  that  no  woman 
remained  in  the  exchange,  and  the  night  operator 
came  on  duty. 

The  town  had  the  wide  spaces  and  uncertain  com 
forts  of  the  territory.  The  telephone  was  cherished 
accordingly.  It  was  still  treated  like  a  miracle. 

Sarah  Raven  sat  at  her  desk  and  looked  thought 
fully  into  the  storm.  It  was  towards  the  end  of  the 
month,  and  the  great  drought  had  broken,  only  to  be 
renewed  in  a  fiercer  form  after  passing  relief.  Mean 
while  the  dark  weather  had  something  of  the  effect 
which  the  interruption  of  drought  always  has;  finding 
one  less  grateful  than  one  should  be  because  one  has 
become  so  accustomed  to  sunshine  that  its  absence 
influences  the  spirits  to  the  defiance  of  the  season. 
Mrs.  Raven  was  tired  with  the  season's  work,  and 

355 


THE  CHIEF   OPERATOR 


somewhat  pale.  She  was  a  compact  little  figure  of  a 
woman;  her  black  skirt  and  white  waist  with  the 
black  tie  at  her  throat  looked  like  a  uniform  or  a 
habit  upon  her.  She  sat  a  trifle  averted  from  the  girls, 
the  profile  of  her  face  and  delicate  bust  against  the 
long  window  set  in  a  mist  of  rain  and  river.  The 
head-receiver  gave  a  Greek  look  to  the  American 
working-woman . 

More  than  the  sadness  of  storm  was  on  her  that, 
afternoon,  and  as  the  day  declined  this  increased. 
She  attended  listlessly  to  her  duties  when  the  girls 
called:  "Number?  What  number?"  and  her  eyes  re 
turned  to  the  bloated  river.  What  mattered  a  creeping 
tear  if  the  river  alone  could  see?  This  was  August 
the  28th.  To-morrow  would  be  one  of  the  anniversa 
ries  of  which  people  who  know  life  say  that  they  are 
"days  to  be  got  over."  To-morrow  would  be  — 
From  the  pang  of  it  she  tried  to  forget,  and  then  for 
the  love  of  it  she  determined  to  remember,  and  then 
she  dashed  forgetting  and  remembering  from  her,  and 
whirled  upon  her  revolving-chair. 

There  was  a  sudden  acceleration  of  demands  upon 
the  exchange.  Calls  came  in  from  everywhere — most 
of  them  were  impatient,  and  many  irritable.  Wives 
were  summoning  husbands,  and  husbands  reassuring 
wives.  "The  storm  is  so  bad  —  do  get  home!  The 
house  shakes,  and  the  river  frightens  me.  Hurry 
home,  Harry;  do!"  —  "Don't  be  anxious,  Sue,  if  I  am 

356 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


late  to-night.  It 's  pretty  bad,  and  hard  going.  I  '11  get 
there  some  time."  Messages  rained  as  hard  as  the 
storm.  The  drops  upon  the  switchboard  clattered  fast. 

"What  number?"  asked  Molly. 

"Chief  operator?"  called  Mary. 

"Chief  operator,"  said  Mrs.  Raven,  instantly. 

The  wind  had  mounted  in  the  last  half -hour  and 
buffeted  the  exchange,  which  shook  in  the  grip  of  it. 
The  river  ran  angrily,  and  took  on  a  frown  as  the 
early  twilight  of  the  storm  descended.  Between  the 
three  sounds  —  the  threat  of  the  water,  the  onset  of 
the  wind,  and  the  complaining  of  the  rain  —  it  was 
hard  to  hear  the  slender  cry  of  the  wire.  The  girls  had 
ceased  to  chatter,  and  listened  sedulously. 

The  electric  bulbs,  staring  with  their  indifferent 
eyes  behind  their  softening  shades,  brightened  as  the 
room  darkened ;  for  an  unnatural  dusk  had  set  in  upon 
the  place.  The  switchboard  itself  wore  a  curious  look, 
almost  an  expression,  like  that  of  a  face  —  a  con 
sciousness;  it  had  the  air  of  power  before  which  the 
girlish  figures  playing  upon  it  were  trivial  and  ineffi 
cient  —  the  puppets  of  a  mystery  which  might  turn 
master  when  it  appeared  to  be  most  slave.  Somehow 
the  rage  of  the  river  and  the  storm  added  to  this  im 
pression  ;  as  if  the  elemental  forces  —  water,  wind  and 
electricity  —  had  combined  into  insurrection  against 
human  control. 

If  Mrs.  Raven  felt  this,  she  had  not  time  to  think  it; 
357 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


she  had  no  time  to  think  at  all  before  there  came 
quivering  down  the  wire  from  her  chief  at  headquar 
ters,  some  fifteen  miles  up-stream,  an  order  before 
which  she  stiffened  into  military  attention.  Now  her 
voice  rose  like  a  thing  that  was  trying  to  fly,  and  grew 
a  trifle  shrill;  then  it  fell  into  the  low,  sustained  tele 
phone  tones. 

"What  did  you  say?  Please  repeat.  It  is  very 
noisy  here.  The  storm —  Please  repeat,  I  say  — 
More  distinctly  — 

"  —  What?  I  don't  get  it  all.  Something  ails  your 
transmitter.  —  I  can't  make  it  all  out  —  only  a  few 
words.  —What?" 

She  had  begun  to  tremble  now;  her  bright  head, 
with  its  Greek  headpiece  like  a  fillet,  shook,  and 
her  hands.  The  operators  at  the  switchboard  had 
snatched  at  the  sense  of  the  message,  and  she  could 
hear  them  crying  out  between  disjointed  fragments. 
Now  the  disability  in  the  current  —  or  perhaps  it 
was  the  interference  of  the  storm  —  had  for  the 
moment  succumbed,  and  the  call  from  headquar 
ters,  peremptory  and  clear  as  cut  glass,  came  to 
her  ears  with  the  insistence  of  irrevocable  catas 
trophe. 

"The  dam  is  going  down.  The  river  is  breaking 
loose.  Run  for  your  lives !  You  have  no  time  to  spare. 
Notify  anybody  you  can,  but  fly  for  your  life !  Do  you 
hear  me?  Good-by." 

358 


THE   CHIEF  OPERATOR 


"I  hear  you  perfectly,"  said  Sarah  Raven.  "I 
thank  you  for  notifying  me.  Good -by." 

Her  chair  whirled,  but  she  did  not  leave  it. 

"Girls  —  "  she  began.  But  the  girls  had  already 
plucked  the  danger  from  the  wire  and  had  melted 
from  the  switchboard  madly;  they  were  flitting  and 
screaming  like  the  flock  of  birds  swaying  outside  the 
window  —  little  beings  seeking  shelter  from  fate,  and 
fussily  complaining  of  it. 

"You  can  go,  Molly  and  Mary,"  said  the  chief 
operator,  quietly.  She  put  out  her  hand  for  her  offi 
cial  directory. 

"Mrs.  Raven!  Mrs.  Raven!"  cried  Molly.  "Why 
don't  you  come,  too?" 

"Mrs.  Raven!"  called  Mary.  "Dear  Mrs.  Raven! 
Hurry!  —  Mrs.  Raven,  ain't  you  coming  with  us?" 

"No,  I  am  not  coming  —  not  yet.  Don't  talk  to 
me,  girls.  I  have  my  subscribers  to  think  of  first. 
Good -by,  girls." 

The  girls  dashed  at  her  and  kissed  her  and  pleaded 
with  her;  but  she  repeated  obstinately,  "Good -by, 
girls,"  and  so  they  turned,  sobbing  childishly,  thinking 
of  themselves,  as  girls  do,  and  started  for  the  stairs. 
At  the  top  of  the  long  flight  Mary  looked  back  and 
cried  out  once  more :  - 

"Dear  Mrs.  Raven!  —  Don't  you  want  me  to  stay, 
too?"  But  Sarah  Raven  did  not  answer.  It  was 
doubtful  if  she  heard.  Her  record  of  listed  subscribers 

359 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


wavered  in  her  hand,  but  her  voice  did  not  shake  at 
all.  As  Mary  went  down  the  stairs  she  heard  it  echo 
ing  through  the  empty  exchange. 

"Is  this  122  —  ring  2?" 

The  young  chief  was  calling  her  subscribers.  She 
was  about  to  warn  them.  Mary  knew  that  Mrs. 
Raven  meant  to  warn  them  all  —  all  who  were  in 
danger  and  had  not  been  notified.  There  were  forty 
of  them  in  the  lower  valley.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
tumbling  out  pellmell,  the  girls  heard  one  authorita 
tive  order  —  their  last  —  from  the  exchange  above :  — 

"Tell  the  grocer.  Tell  Mr.  Rice.  He's  old.  He 
needs  plenty  of  time." 

Sarah  Raven  left  her  desk  and  went  to  the  deserted 
switchboard.  She  had  removed  her  head-receiver  to 
do  so,  and  put  on  one  belonging  to  the  girls.  She  sat 
at  her  post  with  a  composure  which  affected  every 
muscle;  if  it  did  not  reach  the  nerve,  one  watching 
her  would  not  have  known  it.  But  there  was  no  one 
to  watch.  She  heard  the  hysterical  flurry  of  the  girls 
cease  upon  the  stairs,  but  scarcely  with  attention  to 
the  circumstance.  She  was  too  much  alone  to  think 
about  it.  She  was  not  thinking  of  herself  at  all  —  not 
yet.  She  felt  in  some  subterranean  corridor  of  her  be 
ing  that  the  moment  would  come  when  she  should; 
but  dismissed  the  idea  as  an  interruption  to  her  duty. 
To  this  she  set  herself  with  a  passion  that  obliterated 

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THE  CHIEF   OPERATOR 


everything  else  gloriously;  as  passion  does  when  it  is 
high  enough. 

If  anything  that  she  did  in  that  whirlwind  of  mind 
and  heart  could  be  called  deliberate,  she  had  deliber 
ately  chosen  to  call  122,  ring  2,  the  first  of  all.   It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  the  right  to  so  much  - 
and  the  house  was  very  near  the  water. 

"For  Father's  sake,"  she  thought.  "She  was 
Father's  wife.  And  she's  been  a  good  stepmother 
to  me." 

Flashing,  and  fading  as  soon  as  they  had  flashed,  she 
saw  the  comfortable  commonplace  things  that  signi 
fied  home  to  her  —  an  orderly  sitting-room  with  a  hot 
Rochester  burner  on  the  centre-table ;  a  red  silk  shade ; 
a  light -wood  blaze  sparkling  on  the  hearth  for  her 
when  she  should  drag  herself  in,  drenched  and  tired ; 
the  table  set  for  supper  with  willow  ware  in  the  dining- 
room  beyond;  a  portly,  kindly  figure  trundling  in  a 
blue  cotton  dress  and  white  apron  across  the  room  to 
say:  —  "Land!  You  must  be  frazzled  out."  As  the 
door  swung  back  she  could  see  her  husband's  crayon 
portrait  above  the  mantelpiece. 

Her  voice  pierced  the  turmoil  of  water  and  wind 
with  an  astonishing  self-possession  :- 

"Mother!  Run  for  your  life!  The  dam  is  broken. 
Don't  wait  for  anything  —  run !  —  No,  I  can't  come 
yet  —  No,  it  doesn't  matter  about  me  —  not  till  I've 
warned  my  subscribers  —  Oh,  I  must  take  time  to  say 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


-  you  've  been  a  good  mother  to  me  —  No,  no,  no, 
I  can't  do  it.  Good-by." 

She  was  surprised  to  find,  when  she  had  rung  off 
her  stepmother's  agitated  cries  and  entreaties,  that 
she  did  not  know  for  a  wild  moment  what  to  do  next ; 
which  of  all  the  human  homes  dependent  upon  her 
to  warn  first.  She  perceived  that  they  depended  no 
more  upon  her  heroism  than  upon  her  good  sense,  and 
yet  that  seemed  to  be  the  very  quality  which  was 
deserting  her.  She  sat  drenched  in  the  cold  sweat  of 
indecision,  and  for  a  few  minutes  she  rang  up  her 
subscribers  mechanically,  by  order  of  their  number: 
123  —  123,  ring  i --124  — 125. 

But  she  quickly  collected  herself  and  began  to  select 
from  the  unconscious  families  upon  which  the  doom 
of  the  river  was  bearing  down.  With  the  swiftness 
of  a  sympathetic  operator  in  a  country  exchange  where 
she  knew  everybody  and  everybody  knew  her,  she 
recalled  the  circumstances  of  her  subscribers  —  who 
was  sick,  who  was  incompetent,  who  was  hysterical, 
who  had  no  man  in  the  house. 

She  had  rung  up  the  daughter  of  a  bed-ridden 
mother;  they  two  lived  alone  at  the  bend  of  the  stream 
where  the  flood  must  double  upon  itself  and  leave  but 
half  a  chance,  if  any,  even  now;  she  was  calling:  — 

"128?  Fanny!  The  river  is  rising.  Run  for  the 
neighbors  to  lift  her.  You  have  n't  a  minute.  Run ! " 

She  was  still  crying :  —  "  Fanny !  Get  the  neighbors 
362 


THE   CHIEF  OPERATOR 


to  lift  her!"  when  the  old  grocer  stumbled  up  the 
stairs  and  stood  wheezing  behind  her.  He  had 
grasped  her  by  the  arm  and  shoulder. 

"  You  get  out  o'  here! "  he  screamed. 

She  shook  her  head  without  a  glance. 

"I  won't  have  it.  I  tell  you  I  won't  stand  by  and 
see  it!  "  shouted  the  grocer.  "You  come  along  o'  me. 
There 's  time  ef  you  're  spry.  Lord!  Feel  this  damn 
building  rock!  You  drop  them  there  wires  and  get 
out  o'  here,  I  say !  —  Won't,  hey  ?  Well,  Sarah  Raven, 
I  '11  jest  set  here  till  you  will." 

The  grocer  sat  down  and  looked  at  her  obstinately; 
he  was  shriveled  with  terror.  The  flood  had  yet  a 
considerable  distance  to  come;  the  dam  was  six  or 
seven  miles  above  the  telephone  headquarters  in  the 
country  town;  but  the  writhing  valley  helped  the 
advance  of  the  torrent,  and  it  was  impossible  either 
then  or  after  to  time  that  terrible  race. 

The  old  grocer  stamped  up  and  down  the  room; 
he  had  begun  to  gibber. 

"Mr.  Rice,"  said  the  operator,  "this  room  is  the 
property  of  the  Southwestern  Telephone  Company, 
and  I  am  their  officer.  I  order  you  to  leave  the  place. 
Oh,  go! "  she  broke  into  a  womanish  cry,  "there  may 
be  somebody  —  something  - 

At  this  he  went,  as  she  had  thought  he  would;  she 
did  not  turn  her  head  to  see ;  she  felt  that  she  was  alone 
with  her  duty.  She  glanced  out  of  the  long  window. 

363 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


She  saw  foam  and  heard  thunder.  The  stream, 
frenzied  by  rain,  had  already  acquired  a  terrible 
breadth.  It  was  not  yet  quite  dark. 

"It  looks  like  the  River  of  Death,"  she  thought. 
She  did  not  look  at  it  again.  Her  eyes,  burned  dry, 
smarted  as  if  they  had  been  fastened  to  her  task  with 
hot  wax.  The  electric  jets  beneath  their  green  shades 
winked  and  dimmed  about  her.  The  building  quiv 
ered  through  every  oaken  sinew.  A  man  might  have 
been  pardoned  had  he  shaken  with  sheer  physical 
terror.  A  soldier  might  have  fled  and  been  forgiven. 
The  young  woman  sat  at  her  post  like  a  figure  carved 
from  the  switchboard,  a  creature  born  of  the  thrill  and 
power  of  modern  life,  whose  opportunities  replace  the 
old  brutal  heroisms  by  as  much  as  its  ingenuities  are 
finer.  She  rang  to  her  task  as  truly  as  the  call -bells, 
and  clung  to  it  as  simply  as  the  plugs  and  levers.  She 
could  easily  have  escaped  from  the  building ;  there  was 
still  plenty  of  time;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  do  so. 

Her  mind  worked  swiftly  now,  and  very  clearly. 
Yet  down  the  list  of  her  subscribers  her  feeling  ran 
ahead  of  her  thought.  Her  instinct  to  save  was 
quicker  than  electricity.  It  leaped  before  the  current 
could,  and  melted  with  pity  into  forty  homes.  She 
set  her  white  teeth  and  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at 
the  advancing  terror. 

"you  — you!"  she  defied  it.  "I'll  warn  them  all 
in  spite  of  you." 

364 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


Then  she  grew  abject,  and  humbly  entreated  the 
river:- 

"Just  give  me  time,  won't  you?  I  need  more 
time." 

There  was  a  little  boy  down  with  scarlet  fever  at 
116,  ring  3.  The  house  stood  too  near  the  banks. 
Oh,  they  all  did,  for  that  matter.  It  would  be  hard 
to  get  the  little  fellow  out  —  and  in  the  storm !  There 
seemed  to  be  as  much  water  falling  from  above  as 
there  was  rising  from  below.  Her  name  ?  What  was 
her  name  ?  Was  the  operator's  reason  going  with  all 
the  rest? 

.  .  .  "Mrs.  Penney!  Run  for  your  life  —  and 
Johnny's!  The  dam  is  broken.  Wrap  Johnny  up  in 
something  —  your  water-proof.  Leave  everything 
else  —  only  Johnny.  Somebody  will  take  him  in. 
Oh,  I  am  sure  they  will.  You  haven't  a  minute. 
Good-by." 

.  .  .  "Miss   Gregory?  Is   that   Maria  Gregory? 
There 's  a  flood  coming.   Keep  your  head,  Maria  - 
you  're  the  only  person  in  the  house  that  has  one  - 
and  get  your  mother  and  sister  out.    Good-by." 

.  .  .  "Mr.  Cole?  That  you,  Mr.  Cole?  The  dam 
is  broken.  Run  for  your  lives!  The  nurse  will  help 
lift  her  —  and  the  new  baby  -  You  have  time  if 
you  're  quick.  Good-by." 

..."  Mrs.  Bassett  ?  There 's  a  flood  coming  down 
the  valley.  Count  your  children  and  run  for  their 

365 


THE  CHIEF   OPERATOR 


lives  —  Don't  stop  to  ask  a  question.  Do  as  I  tell 
you.  Run!  Good -by." 

.  .  .  "Mary  Brown!  Mary  Brown!  The  river  is 
rising.  Don't  stop  for  anything.  Get  out  of  the 
house  with  your  father.  Is  he  sober  to-night?  Can 
he  walk  ?  — Then  roll  him  out.  You  '11  drown  if  you 
don't.— Good-by." 

.  .  .  "Mr.  Henshaw?  Mr.  Henshaw,  that  you? 
There 's  a  flood  coming.  Run  and  intercept  Jenny  on 
her  way  from  the  office.  Don't  go  back  home.  Run ! " 

.  .  .  "Helen  Patterson?  Helen  Patterson!  Isn't 
this  126,  ring  3?  Mrs.  Patterson?  —  126  —  ring  3? 
Helen  Patterson?" 

The  call -bell  at  126,  ring  3,  remained  unanswered. 
The  operator's  fingers  flew  along  her  plugs:  126, 
ring  4  ?  But  1 26,  ring  4,  was  silent,  too. 

"112?  Is  this  112?  Are  n't  you  there,  112?  Why 
don't  you  answer  me?  I  am  Mrs.  Raven.  The  dam 
is  broken.  Can't  you  speak  ?  112?  Can't  you  hear  ?  " 

She  rebuffed  the  truth  from  her  as  long  as  she  could. 
She  played  upon  the  board  bravely.  She  piled  num 
ber  upon  number,  selecting  here  and  there,  testing 
every  wire  on  her  map.  She  kept  her  head  and  her 
courage  till  this  was  done.  Then  for  a  moment  her 
hands  fell  upon  her  lap,  and  her  chin  upon  her  breast. 

But  she  collected  herself  quickly,  and  recalled  with 
a  dash  of  shame  at  her  passing  confusion  that  the 
up-stream  wires  still  hung  between  herself  and  her 

366 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


headquarters.   She  rang  up  her  manager,  nervously 
now,  without  waiting  for  him  to  answer. 

"I  have  to  report  that  my  lower  wires  are  down. 
They  are  all  down.   I  can't  notify  my  subscribers  - 
any  more.  —  I  have  done  the  best  I  could,  sir.  —  I 
can't  do  anything  —  more." 

She  thought  he  tried  to  say  —  " Escape!"  But  if 
he  replied  at  all,  and  she  was  not  sure  that  he  did,  the 
word  was  cut  off  as  if  it  had  been  slashed  with  a  knife. 
At  the  same  instant,  suddenly  and  utterly  the  lights 
went  out. 

The  operator's  voice  trailed  away  into  beaten 
silence,  and  she  stared  about  her  into  the  oscillating 
darkness.  The  wires  to  headquarters  were  disabled, 
too.  Nothing  would  be  done  about  it;  nothing  could 
be;  the  trouble  men  could  not  work  in  the  flood; 
probably  the  poles  were  going  or  gone.  The  last 
strand  that  connected  her  with  the  living  world  had 
snapped.  The  electric  fire,  so  long  her  servant,  had 
betrayed  her.  Up  to  now  she  had  comforted  herself 
by  the  sense  of  contact  with  humankind,  with  the 
living  voices  in  the  human  homes  for  the  sake  of  which 
she  had  ceased  to  think  of  herself  or  her  young  life. 
So  profound  and  so  absorbing  was  her  sense  of  solitude 
that  at  first  it  half  displaced  from  her  consciousness 
what  it  signified  to  her.  The  ruin  of  the  wires  gave  her 
the  right  to  think  of  herself  —  to  save  herself,  after  all. 

She  sprang,  but  the  head-receiver  —  the  signal  of 
367 


THE  CHIEF  OPERATOR 


her  official  duty  —  held  her.  She  removed  it  and 
went  to  the  window.  The  floor,  as  she  crossed  it, 
swayed  like  a  reeling  bridge.  She  glanced  at  the 
river.  It  was  an  ocean  of  blackness,  flogged  by  foam. 
She  ran  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  but  stopped  to  look 
out  of  the  front  window.  She  could  swim  —  all  the 
river  girls  could  —  and  it  suggested  itself  to  her  that, 
if  the  water  were  only  quiet  enough,  she  might  yet 
make  her  way  to  land. 

One  look  sufficed  her.  There  was  no  longer  any 
river;  it  had  become  a  raving  sea.  The  exchange 
stood,  an  island  in  a  whirlpool.  Perhaps  it  would 
continue  to  stand  —  it  was  a  sturdy  building.  That 
was  a  reasonable  chance,  she  thought,  and  she  clung 
to  it  sensibly. 

She  felt  her  way  to  her  seat  at  her  switchboard,  and 
from  long  habit,  perhaps,  put  on  her  head-receiver, 
or  it  might  have  been  that  she  still  cherished  a  hope 
that  the  trouble  men  would  be  able  to  do  something 
and  repair  the  trunk  wire.  It  was  impossible  for  her 
to  judge  of  this,  and  at  all  events  she  chose  to  keep  to 
her  post. 

In  the  dark  she  began  to  grope  for  her  plugs  and 
drops,  feeling  for  the  numbers  that  she  knew  almost 
as  well  by  sense  of  touch  as  by  sense  of  sight.  There 
might  still  be  a  chance  to  warn  some  helpless  family — 
some  foolish,  incompetent  woman,  or  disabled  person. 
She  reviewed  her  list  of  subscribers,  name  by  name, 

368 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


asking  whom  she  had  omitted.  It  comforted  her  to 
believe  that  all  the  sick  people  had  been  told  in  time. 
She  sat  before  her  switchboard  and  thought  of  this. 
She  had  not  found  time  yet  to  think  of  herself. 

Every  one  who  has  listened  much  to  electric  systems 
knows  how  impressive  is  their  capacity  for  rhythmical 
sound.  Wild  weather  strikes  strange  concords  or  dis 
cords  from  the  local  labyrinth.  He  could  not  have 
known  the  burden  of  his  words  who  told  us  of  "the 
music  of  the  spheres  "  centuries  before  electricity  was 
named  or  tamed. 

The  operator  with  her  metal  fillet  on  her  head 
hears  nothing  of  this  inchoate  harmony;  only  the 
obedient  hum  or  the  rebellious  roar  of  her  working- 
line.  But  as  she  walks  home  on  bitter  nights  beneath 
the  frosted  wires,  or  lies  hearing  their  thrilling  cry 
upon  the  roof  above  her  tired  head,  she  listens  with 
the  acute  sentience  of  her  calling.  She  cannot  deafen 
to  the  overmastering  voices  as  another  might.  Her 
auditory  nerves  are  never  at  rest.  Sleep  scarcely 
assuages  them.  She  longs  for  silence  which  she  may 
not  find.  If  she  be  at  all  a  sensitive  woman,  or  espe 
cially  if  she  be  a  music-loving  one,  she  fancies  curious 
harmonies  or  dissonances  even  in  the  monotonous 
and  maddening  buzz  of  the  wire  whose  bond -slave 
she  is.  The  world  to  her  is  never  still;  it  is  an 
autocracy  of  electric  sound. 

Sarah  Raven  had  been,  in  a  simple,  country  fashion, 
369 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


a  musical  girl,  and  she  had  been  used  to  imagine 
sometimes  that  the  current  and  the  weather,  united  or 
apart,  played  accompaniments  or  struck  melodies  to 
the  hymns  and  sacred  songs  by  which  the  musical 
education  of  the  village  was  chiefly  bounded:  little 
tinkling  things  that  she  had  heard  in  churches  and  at 
weekly  meetings  —  Shall  we  gather  at  the  river?  was 
one  of  them.  There  was  another  that  she  used  to  like : 

"  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood, 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green." 

Now  the  wires  were  rent  and  snarled  and  flung  — 
dashed  and  drowned  in  air  and  water.  Yet  —  how 
was  this  ?  —  the  great  choral  seemed  to  her  to  sweep 
along  outside  the  rocking  building,  as  sounds  that 
have  actually  ceased  continue  to  repeat  themselves  to 
overstrained  ears.  As  she  sat  at  her  post  awaiting  her 
fate  —  this  was  now  a  matter  of  moments,  but  her 
thoughts  and  sensations  seemed  to  cover  a  long  time  — 
as  she  sat  there,  patient  and  grand,  she  remembered 
that  she  had  meant  to  pray  for  herself  as  she  had  been 
taught  in  her  religiously  trained  childhood.  There 
had  not  been  any  time  to  think  of  that.  Who,  with 
forty  human  homes  to  warn,  could  stop  for  such  a 
thing? 

Plainly,  it  had  been  impossible.  She  wondered  if 
God  would  blame  her  because  she  had  forgotten  her 
own  soul. 

Now,  stealing  upon  the  brutal  uproar  in  whose 
370 


THE   CHIEF   OPERATOR 


central  cell  she  was  imprisoned,  there  came  to  her 
consciousness  the  strains  of  one  of  the  great  hymns  by 
the  power  of  which  men  have  lived  and  died  for  more 
than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  human  struggle. 

Upon  the  wings  of  many  waters  she  could  hear  this 
borne  past  the  tottering  building.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  it  had  stopped  to  take  her  up  and  sweep  her  on 
with  it;  as  a  phalanx  of  soldiers  with  their  bugles  and 
drums  might  gather  up  some  defenseless  creature  in 
a  riot,  and  so  protect  him. 

"  Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul!  .  .  . 

"  While  the  billows  near  me  roll, 
While  the  tempest  still  is  high.  .  .  . 

"Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul!  .  .  . 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly." 

The  morning  wore  a  wicked  glitter.  It  showed  a 
blazing,  almost  a  blasting,  sun,  and  there  was  no 
wind.  But  for  the  river  it  would  have  been  a  very 
quiet,  cheerful  day;  one  of  the  mornings  when  people 
hurry  out-of-doors,  laughing,  and  make  up  little 
picnics,  and  play  with  children,  and  smile  at  neighbors 
passing,  and  wish  them  good-day  with  cheery  hearts. 

But  no  one  smiled  that  day  throughout  the  valley. 
Tragic  searching-parties  followed  the  river's  new  and 
fatal  banks.  Boats  went  down  as  soon  as  the  torrent 


THE  CHIEF   OPERATOR 


would  hold  them,  and,  swirling  on  snapping  oars, 
hunted  for  signs  of  death  or  life.  All  the  stalwart  citi 
zens  offered  themselves,  and  every  man  who  could  row 
or  swim  volunteered  to  leave  no  snag  untouched,  no 
eddy  unexamined.  A  few  persons  floating  on  trees  or 
roofs  had  been  saved  at  dawn.  More  whom  it  was  too 
late  to  save  had  been  silently  lifted  and  covered  from 
sight.  The  old  grocer  ran  to  and  fro  calling  shrilly. 

"Where  is  Sarah  Raven  ?  Can't  anybody  find  Mrs. 
Raven?  Mebbe  she's  a  livin'  woman  'somewheres 
yet." 

"He  tried  to  put  out  in  a  boat  for  her  last  night," 
a  compassionate  neighbor  said,  "but  he  was  oversot, 
and  it 's  kinder  crazed  him." 

Mary  and  Molly  had  followed  the  grocer,  and  stood 
childishly  wringing  their  hands.  For  once  in  their 
little  lives  they  did  not  talk.  They  felt  ashamed  to. 

Midway  of  the  morning  there  appeared  a  few  men 
on  horseback  from  the  county  town.  These  were  the 
officials  of  the  Southwestern  Telephone  Company  — 
the  manager,  the  superintendent  of  construction,  and 
one  or  two  subordinates.  Their  rigid  faces  wore  the 
look  of  overwrought  and  sleepless  men  who  are 
divided  between  grief  and  action.  They  were  silent 
as  men  are  in  such  a  case,  but  they  worked  with  the 
more  formidable  determination  for  that. 

Six  miles  —  eight  miles  —  ten  miles  down  the 
stream,  ahorse  and  afoot,  and  by  spinning  boats,  the 

372 


THE   CHIEF  OPERATOR 


search  went  past  the  people.   But  the  river  vindic 
tively  refused  to  them  their  heroine. 

It  was  hot,  still  noon  when  a  man,  wading  waist- 
deep  beneath  a  flooded  orchard,  called  loudly  for  help, 
and  twenty  ran  and  dashed  into  the  water  at  his  side. 

Twelve  miles  below  her  own  exchange  the  young 
operator  lay  among  the  trees;  so  quietly,  one  might 
have  said,  from  the  smile  of  her  so  happily,  that  it 
seemed  half  a  pity  to  intrude  upon  her  dream.  What 
ever  it  was,  it  had  the  sense  of  security  that  our 
dreams  never  know ;  and  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  suppose,  as  one  regarded  her  mercifully  unmarred 
face,  that  she  had  ever  suffered. 

A  mud -bespattered  wagon  with  a  limping  horse  that 
had  followed  the  search  since  daylight  stopped  oppo 
site  the  mute,  bareheaded  group.  A  large  woman 
climbed  down  —  a  woman  in  a  drabbled  blue  cotton 
dress  with  a  soaked  white  apron;  she  plodded  labo 
riously  through  the  mud  at  the  orchard's  edge;  she 
was  sobbing  without  restraint. 

"  Gentlemen,"  she  said,  "bein'  men-folks,  I  don't 
know 's  you  '11  feel  to  care  so  much  to  know  it,  but  if 
she  'd  been  my  own  —  I  never  knew  she  warn't  - 
and,  gentlemen,  it  is  the  29th  of  August  — and  that 's 
her  wedding-day." 

The  manager  of  the  Telephone  Company,  her 
chief  from  the  upper  town,  rode  splashing  through  the 
water  and  stood  uncovered  before  Sarah  Raven. 

373 


THE   CHIEF  OPERATOR 


"She  saved  a  good  many,"  he  said,  speaking  with 
difficulty.  "She's  got  that  comfort.  It's  more  than 
most  of  us  will  ever  get  in  this  world.  As  nearly  as  we 
can  tell  there  are  fifty  persons  alive  to-day  that  —  if 
it  had  n't  been  for  her  —  " 

He  could  not  finish  what  he  was  saying,  but  the  old 
grocer,  half  crazed,  fell  upon  his  knees  in  the  water. 

"Lord,"  he  cried,  "forgive  us  our  trespasses! 
Question  is  whether  we  're  wuth  it,  Lord!" 

Now  it  was  seen  that  the  manager  had  asked  leave 
to  help  carry  her  through  the  flooded  trees.  He  looked 
down  upon  her  proudly  as  he  waded  at  her  side. 

"For  the  honor  of  the  company,"  he  thought. 

But  her  stepmother  babbled  as  she  sobbed :  — 

"She  'd  oughter  been  buried  in  her  wedding-dress. 
But  it 's  gone — with  everything  else.  She  ain't  even  a 
home  to  her  dear  body  to  be  laid  out  in." 

"Every  home  left  standing  is  hers  to-day,  madam," 
the  chief  answered,  with  emotion.  "But  that  is  the 
company's  privilege.  She  is  not  yours  any  longer, 
madam;  she  is  ours.  No,  she  is  not  ours  —  she  is  the 
world's." 

He  stooped  and  touched  her  with  a  solemn  rever 
ence.  The  head-receiver,  with  its  Greek  look,  was 
still  fastened  upon  her  bright  hair.  When  some  one 
would  have  removed  it,  the  chief  refused. 

"We  will  not  disturb  that  crown,"  he  said. 


(tfte  0itoer?ibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


0   vi 


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